


When Brightness Dims

by gray_autumn_sky



Series: Historical Fiction AUs [6]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Advent 2019, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:24:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21891145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gray_autumn_sky/pseuds/gray_autumn_sky
Summary: Regina Blanchard lives an isolated, yet very public life--and Robin Locksley, a bootlegger and a widower with a young son, wants absolutely nothing to do with her or anyone like her. Yet as their lives become oddly tangled, they come to find they have more in common than either of them ever thought possible. Set in the 1920s.
Relationships: Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Robin Hood
Series: Historical Fiction AUs [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1114806
Comments: 53
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

The first time he saw her, it'd been at a distance.

She was standing on the balcony, looking out onto the street. She wore a dark blue sequined dress and the feather from her headband waved gently in the wind. Her shoulders slumped forward, her elbows rested on the balcony's rail, and she looked as though she wanted to be anywhere but where she was—such an odd juxtaposition to the roaring party happening just below her.

In the ballroom below, the Blanchards' guests were dressed to the nines, dancing and laughing while they enjoyed the free-flowing bootlegged champagne and orchestra, relishing in the excess and pomp that came from the generosity of their hosts.

Then, he knew little of the Blanchard's marriage.

Leopold was a banker. He was considerably older and had been married before, and from that marriage he had a daughter. Mary-Margaret was sixteen and every bit as beautiful as everyone claimed her mother was, with her deep hazel eyes and creamy skin—details he only knew because when the girl had cut her long, dark hair into a fashionable bob, her picture found its way to the front page of the society column. It hung in the barber shop beneath his apartment and local working-class girls came in flocks to copy her style.

He'd rolled his eyes at her picture. She was still a doe-eyed, baby-faced child—but someday, in the not so distant future, she'd marry, and she and her husband would be groomed to take the place of her father and stepmother. Her alleged innocence and compassion would fade and self-interest would take its place. The Blanchards apparently also had a son, but he'd never seen him. Presumably, he attended school somewhere else and rarely visited; and though he had no solid proof to back up that assumption, people of the Blanchards' social set didn't have a use for children. Until they were adults, they were merely in the way…

And Regina Blanchard was a busy woman—and not unlike her step-daughter, she was something of a local legend.

For as long as he could remember, he'd known her name.

Her family was tremendously wealthy, and when her engagement to Leopold Blanchard was announced, there was heavy speculation that she was even richer than him. Everyone knew the Blanchards hadn't married for love, there'd really been no question of that, and from what he'd seen and heard, they'd never bothered to pretend that that was the case. From the start, it was clear that something else had led to their union; it wasn't a far leap to assume that that something was money. After all, people like the Blanchards could never seem to have enough of it.

Rumors of their marriage soon ceded to rumors of her affairs; and just before the war, a rather unsettling story swirled around town about her cruel treatment of the house maids. She was cold and aloof on the good days and unleashed onto them a fiery temper on the bad days—and by every account, the bad days outnumbered the good ones. Coupled with the other details he knew of her, he'd had no desire to know her. She was everything he hated—frivolous with her spending and stingy with her obligatory pet causes, only caring when a newsboy from the local paper was sent with a camera. So while she held a prominent position on the hospital board and gave regular donations to the local school and orphanage, it was hard to believe that she actually cared about any of those things.

The war had changed a lot of people; there hadn't been much choice in that. The dead came from all walks of life and all ranks of the social classes. Yet for some, it touched them to a far lesser degree.

When he was on leave, he'd caught a glimpse of a story in the paper. The writer gushed of the sacrifice of Regina Blanchard's personal time—how amazing it was that she'd shown up regularly to cut and roll bandages for the Red Cross, how she'd personally penned letters to soldiers and assembled care packages for wounded soldiers unable to come home. The story was complete with a picture of her in a fur stole and a brooch that could've easily bought six months of rations of the soldiers she pretended to care about. He'd laughed a week later when rumors began to swirl of yet another scandalous affair—this one with the Major who'd been put in charge of Red Cross contributions.

While no one could discount that Regina Blanchard was an involved philanthropist, there was no question that her kindness was self-motivated, and likely a cover. She got something from her charitable work and that dimmed its relevance, and frankly, left a bad taste in his mouth...

So, the week before, when John asked him to pick up and deliver an order to the Blanchards, he'd rolled his eyes and begrudgingly agreed— he had no idea how that delivery would transform his life.

In that moment, he'd truly wanted nothing to do with the Blanchards; but, then again, he didn't want much to do with any of his customers.

Of course, he had no qualms about taking their money—they all had more than anyone could count—but he didn't fraternize with them. There was no small talk upon their delivery nor did he care what they planned to do with the excess of alcohol they illegally purchased from him. He assumed they liked it this way. The less anyone knew of their illegal activities, the better…

He wasn't proud of what he did for a living. He was well aware that it could easily earn him a private room at Sing Sing. But it put food on the table and kept a roof over his son's head, and when he considered that, he couldn't see any real issue with it; besides that, he didn't have much of a choice.

When the war ended, he'd naively thought that was the end to the pain and suffering; he'd assumed things would just go back to the way they were, and the lucky ones could simply go on with their lives and forget the rest had happened…

But when he came home to his wife, the quaint, sleepy little town where he'd grown up was just as jaded and disillusioned as the rest of the world. That was understandable, of course, but he hadn't realized just how few "lucky ones" there were. Most of the boys he'd grown up with didn't make it home, and he was unprepared for the guilt that came with his luck.

It seemed inappropriate to complain that the little bar that had been his father and his grandfather's livelihood had shut down shortly after he'd deployed, and the reality of the new prohibition laws had set in. They'd tried to hold out; everyone was so sure that that law couldn't be enforced, but it was. He'd learned about it through letters from his father and from Marian, and while the war still raged on, he was hopeful that he'd find work; after all, he was young and strong, he'd done reasonably well in school, and before the war, jobs were plentiful. New industry seemed to be popping up left and right; opportunity was everywhere.

Yet, when he returned home, securing employment for more than a few weeks proved to be more difficult than it should've been. The loud noises of the factories made his hands shake and his brow sweat, and the confined spaces of the coal mines a few towns over left his heart racing and a tight knot in his gut. Every loud voice, every whistle, and every bang sent him back to the trenches. The barbed wire and the shellings, the cries from the wounded, and the overwhelming feeling of dread that came with knowing that nothing could be done overwhelmed him—and it was worse now than it was while he was in the thick of it. He'd freeze in place as those memories flooded him, rendering him immobile—and rendering him useless on the job.

After it happened a couple of times, he knew better than to return to the job—it didn't matter how empathetic an employer was, if he couldn't function in the job, he'd be fired. That was that. So, for a few years he bounced around constantly, picking up temporary odd jobs here and there, hoping that this time things would be different. But they never were and the embarrassment that came with each loss made him wonder if everyone had it wrong—he wasn't lucky at all to have made it home. And just when he thought he couldn't sink lower, he had found his just-barely six-month old son crying in his cradle while his mother moaned from the bedroom. He grabbed Roland and tried to comfort him while he ran to Marian, finding her barely conscious and delirious. In that moment, he felt a terror like no other he'd experienced before. He yelled for help as Roland screamed in his arms, and the woman next door called the doctor. But it was no use and two days later, Marian was gone.

Marian's funeral was the lowest point of his life—yet in a strange way, it'd also been a turning point.

It'd been the end of the night when Marco, one of his father's former suppliers and a life-long family friend, arrived with his wife. Marco gave him a tight hug as he offered his condolences and pressed a bottle of whiskey into the breast pocket of his jacket, offering a little wink as he pulled back and mumbled something about _getting through_. Robin nodded and thanked him, and then when all the guests were gone, John opened it and poured them each a drink.

He's not sure now how it came up or who first suggested it, but the more they drank the more sense it all made—and really, he was desperate. A few days later, he spent what little money he had to buy a second-hand truck, and a week later, he and John took Roland up to Canada for a visit and to make Marco an offer. They returned to Vermont with their first load of bootlegged liquor…

Suddenly, he had steady income. Word quickly spread around town, and monthly trips turned into weekly trips which turned into bi-weekly trips for both him and John. This had gone on for years now. They had regular customers and had made quite a nice living for themselves; and best of all, he couldn't get fired when he had a bad day.

Regardless of who went, they always took Roland; after all, it was hard to suspect foul play when an adorable curly-haired five-year old with long eyelashes explained they were crossing the border to go and see his late-mother's parents. It wasn't entirely a lie—John and Marian had grown up without parents and Marco had always kept an eye on them—and though he wasn't entirely sure why Roland decided to tell the story that he did, the border guards believed it and always just waved them through, never stopping to look through the wood crates in the back of the truck.

On that first delivery to the Blanchards, he'd gone alone. The Blanchards were usually John's customers, but he was picking up more stock (or, as he'd tell the border guards, picking up his late-sister's son from a visit with his grandparents), so he'd gone in his place. He hadn't expected a party to be in full-swing, and he hadn't expected to have to haul it all in on his own. Yet, that's exactly what he found when he arrived; only Regina seemed to be waiting for him, and given the way she was dressed, she'd be little help.

Nonetheless, when he caught her eye, her shoulders straightened up and she disappeared back into the house. A moment later, she was opening up the back door to let him in, her checkbook in-hand.

"I'll send someone to bring in the crates," she'd said, barely looking at him. "It'll be just a minute. Everyone's in the ballroom."

"Sure," he'd replied curtly as the door closed behind him.

"Apparently this was not an expected order." She offered a little grin that faded when it wasn't returned.

"Yes, so often people need an emergency shipment of champagne in the middle of the night."

She'd looked sharply at him, but bit her tongue and returned her attention to the check and for a moment, it seemed like that would be the end of it. But then she'd looked up, waiting until she caught his gaze. "Better than in the light of day."

He'd scoffed. Of course, she couldn't help herself from being snide.

"I think this covers it?"

"I'm sure it does."

"I added on a bit for your trouble."

"Thank you."

He'd stared at her and she'd stared back.

Finally, it was Regina who broke the awkward silence between them.

"I thought you might bring your son."

"And why would you think that?"

She'd blinked. "Well… what else would you do with him at eleven o'clock on a school night?"

"I wouldn't wake him, that's for sure." His eyes narrowed, and though he knew he should, he couldn't just leave it there. "How do you know anything about my son?"

She'd looked away. "He got an award at school. For being first to know the alphabet, I think. I think he'll do well when he moves up to first grade." His brow had arched as she looked pointedly back at him. "My signature is next to his principal's."

"Oh."

"I suppose you didn't notice."

He had noticed; he just hadn't cared.

She'd drawn in a breath as she looked around, presumably waiting for whomever had been tasked with helping him unload his truck and bring in the cases of liquor.

"I wanted to meet him."

"Why?"

She'd shrugged and when she looked back at him, it'd been impossible not to notice the change in her gaze as she offered a weak little smile. "I… like children. He seems bright and I wanted to congratulate him personally."

"You could've come to the award ceremony," he'd told her as his arms folded. "You could have congratulated all of the children who received awards."

"I couldn't make it."

"Of course not."

Her jaw had tightened and once more, she'd looked away, her eyes shifting again to the doorway. "You make it sound like I didn't want to be there."

"Well, we do have a tendency to prioritize the things that truly matter to us."

"Yes," she'd agreed, her jaw still tight as her fingers twirled the glass beads that hung around her neck. "We do."

"You have a son, don't you?"

"Yes. Henry."

Nodding, his eyes narrowed as he thought back to her earlier comment about it being a school night. "He's not here, though, is he?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your son. He doesn't live here, does he?"

She was offended. He could tell—and for some reason, he liked that he'd gotten under her skin. "I'm not sure why that's any of your business."

"It's not. Just as it's none of your business where my son is."

"Touché," she'd muttered as her arms folded.

"Can I ask you something?"

"I suppose you will whether or not I want you to."

A soft chuckle escaped him. She was right about that—and truly, he was just curious. "If you like children so much," he began. "Why send your own son away?" He wasn't sure what compelled him to ask her something like that, really, but as soon as the question left his lips, he regretted it; and unlike the moment before when he was glad to have gotten under her skin, he wished more than anything he could take back the question. "I'm sorry—"

For a moment, she'd just stood there as his words hung on his lips. Her eyes narrowed and she'd looked him up and down, and he was sure that she was about to lash out as she famously did; yet, her voice remained still—chillingly still.

"You think you know me, don't you? You've heard stories and seen pictures, and from that you've got me all figured out. But you don't know a damn thing about me. You see what I want you to see, and nothing more." For a moment, he thought she might leave it there, but she didn't. Instead, she took a step inward so that they were standing nearly toe-to-toe. "Yes," she'd begun, her voice dropping an octave and sending a little chill down his spine, "I sent my son to school in another country; but don't presume you know anything about him or me based on that detail alone."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Yes, you did," she'd cut in. "You absolutely meant to."

She hadn't clarified what it was that he'd meant to do, exactly, but she was right. He did mean to say what he did and imply what he did; that didn't mean that he didn't regret it.

"Here's the thing, though," she continued, "Instead of judging the sort of parent I am based on where I sent my son to get an education, try considering why I might've done that." His eyes pressed closed as he'd tried to formulate an apology, but before he could, she went on. "Don't assume that I didn't think the local schools weren't good enough for him. Quite the contrary, actually, especially given the amount of money I've poured into them."

"You're right—"

"I know." He'd taken a breath as she stepped back, and he was glad for the distance. "Unlike you, I won't make an assumption about the sort of parent you are, and I'm willing to venture you'd do anything to protect your son."

He'd nodded. "That would be correct."

"So, don't think that I wouldn't do the same."

With that, she'd turned on her heels and walked out of the room as she muttered that someone would be there to help him eventually. He'd only nodded and watched her go.

The second time he met her, it'd been to drop off another order and a letter that contained his profuse apology. The third time, he'd gone to see if she'd accepted it. She'd rolled her eyes and muttered a curt, _Yes, I suppose I can forgive you, if it means that much to you,_ before two footmen joined them to carry in two cases of wine; and on the fourth time he met her, it was by chance.

He was picking Roland up from school to take him up to see Marco and Eugenia. Roland had been chattering on about his "Granny's" lasagna and stopped abruptly to tie his shoe, and that's when he noticed her.

She wore a plain yet bold, red silk dress, and though he didn't doubt that it cost an extraordinary amount of money, nothing about her outfit, outside of its color, was over the top or screamed for attention. There was no newsboy with a camera nearby; in fact, no one was around at all. It was just her and a little girl with a skinned knee—a little girl he'd seen on the playground and around town. The little girl's cheeks were tear-stained, but she was no longer crying as Regina tended to her bleeding knee. He'd watched as she'd cleaned it up and cut a bandage, all the while smiling as she spoke to the girl. He couldn't quite hear what she was saying, but the little girl laughed as she lifted her up from the counter and placed her feet back down on the floor—and then, he watched as Regina reached into her pocket and gave the girl a little candy wrapped in a metallic red paper. The little girl ran off and Regina watched her go, offering a wistful little smile as she did.

His eyes narrowed and a little smile tugged up from the corners of his mouth; but before he could make himself known, or decide if he even wanted to do that, Roland gave his hand a hard tug and dragged him out of the schoolhouse. He'd laughed as he looked back at his son, shaking his head as Roland whined about being able to practically taste the lasagna he knew was waiting for him—and with one final look back at Regina, he found himself smiling at her. In some ways, this version of her didn't seem real; yet, at the same time, he was fairly certain that this was the realest version of her—a version not many had the chance to see.


	2. Chapter 2

She wasn't sure what to make of Robin Locksley.

Over the course of the last three months, she'd met him a handful of times, and each interaction was wholly different.

She was a firm-believer in first impressions—after all, it's difficult to hide behind a mask and put on a show when you don't know that anyone's looking. The first time she'd seen him had been outside of the school house, just before the annual awards. His son had earned one and he'd been beaming with pride. Before getting in her car, she watched him scoop up the boy and toss him in the air before pulling him into a tight hug. He spun around and cupped the back of his son's head, and when his hold loosened up, he listened eagerly as his son spoke to him. In a way, she felt like she was intruding on a private family moment and that by gawking at them she might be rude, but for whatever reason, she couldn't bring herself to look away. All she could do was stand there awkwardly smiling and hoping they didn't notice her.

She couldn't help but think she'd like to know him better—and as she stood there, considering that, she found herself distracted, trying to memorize his every detail.

His eyes were the first feature that drew her attention. Even at a slight distance, they were striking, really—bright blue and kind—and when he smiled, they seemed to glitter. She usually wasn't a fan of facial hair on men, but she liked it on him. His scruffy beard was well-kept, and instead of making him look sloppy, it made him look distinguished—and it was only at a second glance that she noticed that it hid the dimples that sunk into his cheeks whenever he smiled.

Well, she wasn't sure that she liked that particular detail, but it wasn't like her opinion mattered in that regard, and it didn't detract from the overall package—and truly, she'd only ever get to admire him from afar.

The second time she saw him he was at the house, taking an order for a party Leopold would be hosting later in the week. She'd stood at the top of the stairs watching their interaction, watching how he seemed comfortable, not at all put off by the obnoxious excess of wealth surrounding him nor the fact that he was making an illegal transaction. He walked with confidence—his head up and his shoulders square—and when he spoke to someone, he looked directly at them, regardless of whether he was talking to a footman, the butler, or to Leopold himself.

At first, she wasn't quite sure how she felt about that—and she certainly didn't think she'd like it. Being looked in the eye made her uncomfortable. It made her feel like she was being sized up, as if her vulnerabilities were evaluated, and inevitably she'd fail to measure up. She was usually the first to look away and though she didn't quite know what it was, she was sure that said something about her…

Their first conversation had been a rocky one. She'd meant to compliment his son and left feeling insulted—and insulted on the most personal level. In not so many words, he insinuated that she didn't love her son, that she'd sent him away to school so that she didn't have to be bothered with the ins and outs of motherhood. And while that was vehemently untrue, it stung—and he knew that it did.

She hadn't expected his apology nor had she wanted one; after all, she spent an entire evening convincing herself that Robin Locksley and his opinions didn't matter in the least, so his apology shouldn't matter either.

Yet his note to her struck a chord.

It was short and sweet, to the point, yet filled with his own musings of the unexpected challenges of parenthood and the unseen struggles people face. She had an inkling that he was speaking from experience, but she couldn't know for sure. What she did know, though, is that his words meant something to her. It wasn't often that people acknowledged her struggles and she understood why that was—after all, from the outside looking in, what struggles could a person like her have?

There was something familiar about Robin Locksley. She couldn't quite pin-point what it was exactly, but despite their rocky first meeting, she still found herself wanting to know him.

There weren't many people she felt that way about, there weren't many people she wanted to know—and she was sure that that feeling was mutual. She was a hard person to like and an even harder person to love. She'd spent years crafting her facade, cocooning herself in an air of elusive mystery, swirling rumors that protected her secrets, and a hard shell that hid any glimmer of her feelings. In her most personable moments, she was guarded and in her most vulnerable ones, she was cruel—and she'd done this for so long, she was beginning to lose any semblance of self she might've had.

Truthfully, she wasn't sure how she felt about that—it hadn't been her goal—and in some ways it seemed appropriate that the things she did to preserve herself had led to the loss of self.

But really, what had she lost?

Over the years, she'd tried to build relationships with people she cared for and liked, the people she wanted to be around, but she always seemed to fail. It wasn't until her son was born that she finally understood that despite her best intentions, her love would always be poison.

For a time, she thought she'd found an antidote. For a time, she had someone she loved who, miraculously, loved her back—and he had. The problem was that his love wasn't enough.

She wasn't supposed to fall in love with Daniel. She wasn't supposed to have let down her guard and let him in, and she was foolish for ever thinking that it could work out. Looking back, that was so obvious, but while she was in the thick of it, it hadn't been so clear. She was too focused on how she felt and what could be.

They'd met by chance on a warm summer night in '16. She'd taken a longer-than usual ride and when she'd returned, Daniel was there, brushing one of the horses. He'd smiled sweetly and complimented Rocinante, and from there, they'd struck up a conversation. She learned that he worked at the country club, giving riding lessons to children and caring for members' horses when they couldn't be there, ensuring they got enough exercise and were groomed. He was saving up to go to veterinary school and to speed up the process, he was living with his sister's family. On that summer night, he'd been close to having the necessary amount to cover his first year and hoped to start classes that coming spring—but of course, by April, it was all a moot point. Instead of starting school that spring, he boarded a ship to Europe and found himself stationed on the front lines, offering relief to the exhausted men who'd been fighting for years.

Throughout the war, they traded letters—sweet little notes that she kept bounded up by a ribbon and tucked in an old hat box in her closet. In those letters, she kept him up-to-date on the things happening in their sleepy little town, reminisced about steamy nights in the hayloft above the stables at the country club, and recounted funny stories and anecdotes she hoped would raise his spirits. In those letters, their relationship blossomed from a fling into something that seemed like it could be lasting.

They made plans for after the war—and looking back, it seemed so naïve to think those plans could've worked. She was going to leave Leopold and he was finally going to go to veterinary school. They were going to buy a little plot of land—just enough for a house, some stables, and a garden—and that's where they'd raise their family. In the letters they exchanged, they planned every detail of their lives. The house would be white with blue shutters, surrounded by a white picket fence and a cobblestone path that led from the road to the front. Another path would take them from the back door to the stables, with a little fork that led to their fenced-in garden. Though she'd never so much as boiled an egg, she imagined herself making big meals on Sundays when friends would come to visit and picking beans and tomatoes with their children at her feet. In every story they spun, they were deliriously happy.

He'd been allowed to come home on leave for his father's funeral—he didn't know the strings she'd had to pull to make that happen—and though he was only allowed a handful of days before he had to ship back out, it'd been enough to give them a taste of what their lives would be like.

And that's when she got pregnant.

Daniel shipped back out in late September and by early November a ceasefire was called—but in those weeks in between, Daniel's letters stopped. At first, she told herself she was silly for worrying; it wasn't like writing love letters to her was the only thing he had to do.

Only two people knew about her affair with Daniel. First was her best friend, Mallory, and the second was Mallory's half-brother, Arthur—a well-connected Major General who volunteered to fight with the British earlier in the war and returned badly injured as a result. To stay apart of the war effort, Arthur headed up the local Red Cross and worked in a hospital for the wounded. Arthur was the one who ensured her letters made it to where they needed to go, Arthur was the one who'd gotten Daniel the leave for his father's funeral, and it was Arthur who'd shown up at her doorstep to inform her that Daniel had gone missing on the first of October, only four days after arriving back on the front. She'd held her breath as she stared at him, tears welling in her eyes as she offered a high-pitched, _Well, then there's still hope,_ but Arthur shook his head and informed her that Daniel had been a part of a prisoner exchange. He was confirmed dead upon the exchange.

Her heart nearly burst when he said it, and then he'd awkwardly looked away from her and explained that he thought she should hear it from someone who knew them both, rather than reading his name in the paper the following morning.

She'd nodded as her body went numb and the next day, she read in the paper that the patrol he'd been on when he was captured by the Germans was not his usual routine; he'd volunteered for it to cover one soldier who'd filled his place while he'd been on leave.

Reading that was like a punch to the gut. If she hadn't arranged for him to come home, he'd probably still be alive, she'd realized. _She_ did this to him.

She'd barely allowed herself to grieve for him.

Really, how could she? No one knew what he meant to her—and certainly no one knew that he was the father of her child.

Only a week after the news of his death, she'd set a new plan into motion—a new plan that would not only shape her future, but ensure her misery and loneliness. In some ways, it was her penance, but in other ways, it was simply self-preservation.

Still numb with grief, she seduced her husband—not an easy feat considering how uninterested in her Leopold was. But nonetheless, he responded to the alcohol she gave him and to her flirtations. By the time she touched him, he was too drunk to be suspicious and when she'd knelt down in front of him the groan that escaped him told her that even if he was suspicious, he'd never have stopped her. That night, she'd laid under him hating herself and just waiting for it to be over, reminding herself that she needed to do this, that she needed him to believe that the child she was carrying was his...

In retrospect, she should have just left him.

She had a trust fund in her name, and she had no qualms about accepting the stigma that would come with being an unwed mother, but for whatever reason, that hadn't occurred to her until it was too late—and again, this was all part of her penance.

When she told Leopold that she was pregnant, he'd simply stared at her in confusion and had to be reminded of their night together. Still, even after the reminder, he looked unphased and muttered that he hoped the child would be a boy.

He wasn't there when Henry was born, and for that, she was glad.

She'd arranged a busy summer for herself and her husband, obviously time spent apart. Mallory invited her to Newport where she stayed on a month—it was there that she gave birth to Henry—and then convinced Leopold to go on a hunting excursion through Canada for the rest of the summer. The whole scheme had been so elaborate, and she'd enlisted help from Mallory and Arthur. It'd been the latter who'd finally convinced him by explaining the trip was a celebration of the return to normalcy and that the cool-Canadian air would be a nice escape. The trip went on longer than anticipated, and in early September, when they returned, Regina introduced Leopold to their baby son—a son she claimed "came a bit early" at the beginning of August.

She'd held her breath as Leopold examined the baby, huffing, _He's big_ , before grinning smugly and hoping he might play football, just as he had, for Harvard one day. She'd managed a nod as he left the nursery, then exhaled and wondered if she actually succeeded in her scheme.

But, of course, it couldn't be that easy.

As the days and weeks and months passed, Henry began to look more and more like his father—and more and more people referenced her boy's beautiful hazel eyes. It wasn't something that was so out of the ordinary and if you didn't think too hard about it, it even made sense. After all, Mary-Margaret had hazel eyes—but Mary-Margaret's eyes were from her mother, not her father.

She'd kept up the facade until Henry was four—though it always felt like she was walking on pins and needles whenever Henry was in Leopold's presence. Then one morning she came down to breakfast to find her husband and son sitting at the table together, already eating. Henry had a bowl of oatmeal and berries in front of him and was chattering happily about upcoming music lesson that afternoon as Leopold stared at him with narrowed eyes.

"He doesn't look like me," he said, without looking at her.

"Well, you're not the only one he could take after," she retorted curtly as her heart began to pound.

"He doesn't look like you either."

"Traits can skip generations," she'd said. It was a reply she had ready. "I've always thought he kind of looked like my mother."

It was then that Leopold looked to her, his brow cocked. "Your mother."

"Yes, the next time I visit my parents, remind me to try and find a picture of her when she was young. I know she has one. You'll see it."

Of course, no such photograph existed, but Leopold only shrugged before turning his attention to the newspaper, focusing on a story about a hockey game at the Winter Games in Chamonix. And it was that day she began researching boarding schools in England.

A month later, she'd made her choice and she, Henry and Mal set sail for England. Only, Mal's ticket was also one-way. In some ways, she was glad that Mal volunteered to be close to Henry—and it nearly killed her to lose them both.

She'd been unprepared for just how lonely those two years without her son would be, and on most days, it was difficult to remember the reason behind sending him away. She didn't like to dwell on it, and she most certainly didn't like to dwell on the effect it might have on her relationship with her son. Prior to going away, he'd never spent so much as a night away from her, and no matter how much she prepped him and no matter how many times he assured her that he'd be okay, without experiencing it, it wasn't truly something either of them could know.

Whenever she spoke to him or visited, he seemed upbeat. He was good at school and made friends quickly, and of course, Mal was always nearby. So, while she wasn't fully sure that Henry or the head mistress at his school would be completely honest with her, she expected that Mal would be, and in some ways that was a comfort. But in other ways, its was anything but. Henry had been a bright spot in an otherwise bleak existence. Like his father, he brought into her life things she hadn't known that she was missing—and like his father, when she didn't get to have him in her daily life, a seemingly permanent ache settled at her core. On some days, she could ignore it; and on other days, she accepted it as the punishment she so obviously deserved, and though she couldn't quite explain why, there had to be a reason for her loneliness.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite his reluctance, the Blanchards proved to be ideal customers.

Leopold loved to throw parties, and he spared no expense, especially when his daughter was concerned.

Though she was still a bit too young for marriage, a rumor swept through town that she was soon to be engaged to the slightly older, but still baby faced, David Nolan who came with a fairytale, rags-to-riches story. Leopold had taken him under his wing, first as his financial advisor through the bank and then as a confidant, and it surprised no one when he took on a fairly prominent (and unnecessary) position at the bank alongside Leo. It seemed inevitable that the next step would be the announcement of David's engagement to Mary-Margaret—and just as quickly as the rumor of the engagement spread, so did the rumor that this weekend's party would serve as the perfect setting to announce it.

So it seems odd when he arrives that the evening for a scheduled delivery to find the house desolate and eerily still.

For three months, without fail, two footman had met him at the door to accept a delivery. He followed them down to the cellar when they carried down the final two crates where he knew that Leopold would be surveying his order and waiting with the payment. When he was satisfied, he paid him in cash. Few words were ever exchanged between the two of them, and truly none were needed. Both he and Leopold held up their end of the agreement; there was nothing to discuss.

But tonight, there are no footmen waiting and after ringing the bell several times, no one comes to answer.

It occurs to him that he could just leave, but driving around with $200 of champagne and another $100 or so of various liquors seems like it might tempt fate. After all, there was a reason pickups were always in the middle of the night and deliveries had to wait until sundown.

Drawing in a breath, he pulls his hands from his pockets and tries the door—and to his surprise, it opens without resistance.

He finds that the kitchen is curiously dark with no signs that a meal had even been prepared for that night. Though he knows he probably shouldn't, he looks into the servants hall, and like the kitchen, he finds it empty. His brow furrows as he bites down on his lip as he considers that perhaps there's been a misunderstanding.

He isn't sure what compels him to go up the stairs to the main part of the house, or what or who he expects to find there, but soon, he finds himself standing in one of the house's main hallways.

For a moment, he just stands there, looking around and taking in the gold fleur de lis wallpaper, rich red carpet, and the dimly lit wall sconces. The rooms off of the hall are all dark, save one, and when he pokes his head in, he sees an oil painting over the hearth. Stepping in closer, he narrows his eyes to see it better, and when he gets close enough, he can see that it's a family portrait.

However, it wasn't quite the family that currently resided in the house. Instead, it was a younger version of Leopold Blanchard with a little hazel-eyed girl sitting on his lap—Mary Margaret, he assumes—and a woman who looks eerily similar to Regina standing beside them, her hand positioned on Leopold's shoulder. Leaning in, he studies it a bit more, noting the woman's cheek bones and the shape of her eyes, the kind smile stretched across her lips and dark curls that framed her face—all features that Mary Margaret now possessed, features she obviously inherited from her mother.

Giving the room one more glance, he leaves it, going on to the next—and then, as he rounds the corner, he notices a light stretching out into the hall. Moving toward it, he suddenly freezes—suddenly very aware that he isn't supposed to be where he is. But before he can slink away, he hears Regina's voice—uncharacteristically high-pitched as it cracks, an indication that she's likely losing a battle to maintain her composure—and for whatever reason, he finds himself stepping closer to listen.

"... and why shouldn't he be allowed?"

"I had a letter from the school. He needs to stay and focus on his studies."

"They said that?"

"In not so many words."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he's all but failing his math class and could benefit from tutoring. He made a C on his last test. Long division of all things." Leopold's eyes narrow as they fall to where Robin can only assume Regina stands. "I was always good at math. So was Mary Margaret."

"And?"

A heavy silence falls between them, and for whatever reason, he finds himself moving toward the room where the Blanchards stood, hovering in the shadows just beyond the doorway to get a better look.

"I want to see the letter," Regina demands.

"I've told you what it says."

"So?"

Leopold scoffs. "What? Don't you trust me, Regina?"

Now, it's her turn to respond with icy silence. He watches as Regina's features harden and he could almost see her hurt turning into anger as her husband holds her gaze. He has no skin in the game, of course, but he finds himself siding with Regina and his own gaze hardening as he stares at Leopold. Regina had every right to see a letter regarding her son and the fact that Leopold was being so coy with her was suspect, at best.

"I've made my decision. I've already sent a letter back to the school."

Again, there's a long pause, but this time, as his eyes shifted to Regina, he could see tears welling up in her eyes as her jaw began to tremble. "But… it's Christmas," she says, her voice practically cracking. "He hasn't been home since—"

"Then he should've studied harder. My mind's made up. He's staying in London."

"Then I'll go to him!" Regina calls, reaching out to her husband as he turned away from her to lift a glass of abandoned bourbon. "Please. I can go instead. I'll—"

Robin's brows arch as Leopold turns. It seems like a reasonable solution, but as Leopold turns back to her, it is obvious that he doesn't agree. "Don't be stupid."

"You don't need me here."

"You're right. I don't."

"Then—"

"Mary Margaret does." Regina's jaw tightens at his reply. "A bride needs her mother—and, unfortunately, you're the closest thing she's got."

A callous little grin edges over Leopold's lips as he stares at his wife, and it's clear that he chose words that would sting—and judging by Regina's reaction, they had the exact effect he was hoping for and he was pleased.

"I'd only be gone a couple of weeks."

"And how would you go?"

"What do you mean?"

"How would you pay for your passage?" That seemed like a ridiculous question, and judging by the way Regina's cheeks flush with embarrassment—or perhaps, it's anger—he can tell that the question was meant to be rhetorical. "Right," Leopold says smugly as he finally draws a sip from his glass of bourbon. "Then it's settled."

"It'll be Christmas," Regina says again, her voice flat. "He's only eight, and he's—"

"Old enough to learn he has to work for the things he wants. Nothing's free and laziness shouldn't be coddled."

Again, Regina's cheeks redden as she looks up, and now he can plainly see that she's not embarrassed. Her jaw is tense and her eyes are hard, but she doesn't say anything more, likely knowing there's no way she'll win.

Eyes still focusing on her, Leopold slowly drinks his bourbon in one long sip. Regina's eyes remain locked with his, and it is almost as though they are having some sort of silent conversation. The tension between them is palpable, and it makes him feel unsettled, as though he were just waiting for one of them to lash out at the other.

It occurs to him as he's standing there that he should probably go. Whatever fight they were in the middle of was none of his business. Yet, he can't quite bring himself to leave; so, he just stands there, watching and waiting…

Finally, Leopold finishes his drink, slamming the glass down against the wooden top of the bar.

"I'm late," he says, his voice distant and low.

Regina doesn't reply; she doesn't even turn to watch him go.

Robin takes a few steps back just before Leopold exits the room, trudging toward the foyer to grab his coat. A bit awkwardly, Robin watches as he reaches for his hat—and expensive black bowler with burgundy silk piping. It's an odd thing to notice, but he does. He watches the way he touches it, his fingers grasping gently at it as he examines it, and then, giving himself an approving little smile in the mirror, he puts on the hat and upturns his coat's collar. Robin's eyes narrow as he takes in the aesthetic, assuming that Leopold was going for some sort of suave, debonair look when instead he looks like a jackass.

Feeling his jaw tensing, he has to look away.

When he was a boy, his father used to tell him that you could tell a lot about a man's values just by noticing the things he cared for. It was a sentiment that never failed him; after all, most people showed their true colors when they didn't know they were being watched—and Leopold Blanchard showed far more care for a god damned hat than he did his wife.

The door is barely closed behind Leopold when he hears the sound of shattering glass, drawing his attention from the front door to the room where Regina stands. It's only when she turns sharply to stare at him that he realizes that he must have gasped.

"I—I'm sorry—"

"What the hell are you doing here?"

He swallows. That is a fantastic question. "A delivery," he manages. "No one answered."

"So you just invited yourself in and decided to make yourself comfortable."

"Trust me, M'lady, I am not comfortable."

For a moment, she just stares at him, her eyes wide and her jaw tight—and for a moment, he thinks she's about to tear into him. But instead, she looks away, embarrassed. "So, you heard—"

"I was only looking for someone to—" He stops abruptly. There's no excuse for why he's standing in her house, eavesdropping on an obviously private conversation. "I'm sorry. I'll go."

Reigna nods, but as he turns away, she reaches for him, her fingers just barely touching the fabric of his coat. "Was it a large order?"

"Just under double of the usual."

Regina blinks. She has no idea what that means. "Can I help?"

Robin's lips press together as he takes her in; he doubts she'd be much help, but it seems insulting to actually tell her that—and she's been insulted enough for one evening. "I can come back tomorrow," he says instead.

"Oh—"

"Unless—"

"I could try." A little grin tugs up at one corner of her mouth and she offers a shrug. "It seems like this was our mistake, and I'd hate for you to have to come back because I dumbly gave the staff the night off."

"That explains why no one answered."

"No one told me anything was due, and… as you heard, my husband has plans for the evening."

"And how about you?"

He grimaces. He didn't mean that to come out the way that it sounded—he didn't mean it to sound as if he were asking her if she were free, like he was trying to win a date—but she laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

"Apparently, I'm helping you lug in crates of liquor."

Regina doesn't give him a chance to say anymore. Instead, she brushes past him, her shoulders squaring as she strides out of the room. For a moment, he just stands there—dumbly wondering if he should follow—and then, a little grin tugs up at the corner of his mouth. He's not quite sure he'll ever have her figured out.

By the time he catches up with her, she's standing at his truck, her breath puffing out impatiently in front of her.

He hesitates a moment, looking her up and down, noting her impractical dress and heels, but when her brow arches as if to ask what he's waiting for, he says nothing. Instead, he steps around her and opens the back of his truck.

She steps up beside him, surveying the crates, her fingers rubbing over the painted on "Fine China" as her brow arches and a little laugh escapes her—then, just as he's about to tell her to be careful, she reaches for a crate and lifts it, looking him square in the eye.

"Where do we normally store them?"

He blinks. "Um, the cellar, but I'm sure, given the circumstances, the kitchen would be—"

"If they go in the cellar, then they'll go in the cellar," she tells him just before hauling the first of the heavy crates into the house—and again, he feels a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

For the better part of the next hour, they transfer the liquor from the back of his truck to the Blanchards' cellar. Finally, when the last crate comes in, she offers a triumphant little laugh before turning to look at him and smiling.

He blinks and feels his cheeks warm, suddenly glad for the dim lighting and the stubble covering his cheeks.

He's not sure that he's ever seen her smile—not genuinely, at least—and it lights up her whole face. Her eyes seem brighter and warmer, her skin a bit rosier, and her demeanor completely changed. It's exquisite and extraordinary.

Regina lifts the top from one of the crates and reaches in, pulling out a bottle of French wine. He watches as she reads the label, biting down on her lip before her eyes cast upward to meet his.

"Would you… like a glass?" she asks. "After all the trouble we put you through, it only seems fair."

"You pay me well."

Her smile fades and immediately, he wishes he'd said anything else. "You mean my husband pays you well."

"Isn't it… one in the same?"

"No."

He sighs and shifts awkwardly on his feet. "Well, regardless, it's worth my trouble."

"I don't mean… doing whatever it is that you do to get this for us, though," she tells him. "I was referring to the trouble you went to tonight."

"Ah, well, in that case, all's well that ends well," he tells her gently. "It all worked out."

She nods, but looks unconvinced. "Then consider it a celebratory drink."

Hesitantly, he looks to the bottle and then back to her, wondering what she's really asking. Her big brown eyes are wide and glistening, her jaw's trembling slightly. Still, despite the sudden show of vulnerability, her eyes hold his, and he finds himself captivated, unable to look away from her. It's odd really, the way she hooks him, the way she makes him want to stay, and how in just a few weeks he'd gone from wanting nothing to do with her to wanting to comfort her.

He doesn't fraternize with customers. He doesn't get attached to them. He doesn't care about them. Yet as he stands there, somehow a simple, _I'm sorry, no,_ seems so impossible.

He shifts his weight as he considers the harm that one drink would do—but then, he considers how easily one drink turns into two and then three, and as he stares at her, he can't help but think she's asking for more than a celebratory drink. He could be wrong—maybe he's projecting, his father did also tell him he had something of a hero complex and maybe it's him who wants more—but it doesn't matter. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't stay. It was late and Roland never slept well in his absence.

"I'm sorry to say that I can't," he finally says as he breaks her gaze. "I need to get back to my boy."

She swallows hard and offers a half nod as she musters a sad little smile. "Of course. I—how stupid that I didn't consider that." He wants to disagree—at least that her invitation was stupid—but her whole face changes as she puts on an aloof little smile. "Another time then?"

Gently, he grins and nods. "Perhaps I can take a rain check?"

"Of course you can," she tells him, her smile brightening in an effort to hide her disappointment.

On that note, he leaves her, possibilities swirling through his head as he makes his way up from the cellar and gets into his truck—and when he pulls away from the Blanchards' house, he feels a little twinge of guilt.


	4. Chapter 4

He'd left her standing in the cellar holding onto a bottle of wine, and feeling like an absolute fool.

Of course, she couldn't blame him, especially not after what he'd overheard between her and Leopold… but still, she'd hoped that he'd stay, if only so that she didn't have to spend the night alone.

She returned the bottle to its place in the crate and made her way upstairs, shivering at the eerie quiet.

Giving the household staff the night off seemed like a brilliant idea when she planned it; after all, she was gearing up for a big fight with Leopold and she knew that. Inevitably, there would be things said that she didn't want repeated. She wasn't sure who among the house staff enjoyed leaking tidbits of information about her to whomever would listen—and truly, she couldn't understand why anyone cared to hear any of it—but she'd long ago stopped trying to figure it out. So, in moments where she couldn't afford an audience, the staff found themselves with an unexpected night off. It was simply easier this way, and though blowups between her and Leopold couldn't always be predicted, this tactic could at least curb the frequency of the stories that would inevitably be spun.

But that afternoon it had worked.

Preemptively, she'd breezed into the servants hall, spinning a story about uncharacteristically forgetting dinner plans with an unnamed friend. No one asked for more details and no one pointed out the fragility of her story—they had no reason to. So, instead of beginning to prepare dinner, they prepared for a night out.

She'd picked this particular night with purpose. Mary Margaret was set to have dinner with David Nolan and his mother, and Leopold had post-dinner plans, so if the conversation went awry (as she knew that it would), it wouldn't drag on and on through the night. It was the perfect opportunity to bring up Henry coming home for Christmas.

It'd been more than a year since she'd seen her son, and phone calls between them were few—school policy dictated that—and though they wrote letters, Henry was still too young to write a proper letter with any sort of regularity. Most of her communication with Henry came through Mal—and for that, she was eternally grateful—but still, it did nothing to dull the ache that now permanently resided in her chest.

Going into the conversation, she had expected a lacklustre response from her husband; after all, he'd never had much interest in Henry. At least on some level (as he'd never gotten confirmation otherwise), Leopold believed that Henry was his son, so she hoped that she could appeal to him as a parent—and if not as Henry's parent, as Mary Margaret's, as there wasn't anything that Leopold wouldn't do for his daughter.

Mary Margaret had always been fond of her baby brother, and annoying as it was when Henry was a baby, Mary Margaret wanted to be involved in every detail of his life. From feedings to diaper changes to playing with him for hours on end, Mary Margaret was exuberantly there. She'd been devastated when Henry went off to school and still kept in touch with her brother through occasional letters. So when Regina first decided that she wanted Henry to come home for the holidays, she planted the seeds with Mary Margaret.

With her step-daughter as her ally, she'd gone into the conversation hopeful—but quickly, her hopes were slashed. Leopold scoffed at the mere idea; she hadn't even had the chance to bring up how happy Mary Margaret would be to see him or that it was their last Christmas together before Mary Margaret got married and started a family of her own.

Her ears rang and her cheeks were hot, her jaw clenched and her hands balled into fists as she willed herself not to cry. Petulantly, she'd suggested that she could go to Henry, and again, Leopold dismissed the idea. She hated him and in that moment, she could feel that hatred eating away at her core—but she was trapped. There wasn't anything she could do or say to change it—and he knew that. He'd been so smug as he left her, knowing that he'd gotten under her skin and knowing that he'd won.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she looks down the hall toward her bedroom, thinking a bath might be a nice way to take the edge off of her mood—but that also sounds like a reward she hasn't quite earned.

So, instead, she turns in the opposite direction, making her way toward Leopold's study where the household phone resided. Taking in a labored breath, she sat down, momentarily hesitating to look at the clock on the wall—it was just after midnight which meant that it was just past four in the morning in London. Mal would be asleep. After a few minutes of debate, she picked up the phone and asked the operator for a connection to London—and all the while, she held her breath at the thought of being alone with her thoughts if Mal didn't answer.

To her relief, Mal did answer—albeit groggily—and for the next half an hour or so, she recaps her fight with Leopold. Every now and then, she could hear Mal on the other line, starting to say something, then stopping, or making little noises to express her loathing of Leopold. For the most part, though, she just let her vent. And really, that's what she needed—someone to simply listen.

"I don't understand. Regina, you have money. You're richer than that bastard. You can just—"

"No," she cut in. "You're blissfully unaware of the rules of marriage."

"Enlighten me."

Regina sighs. They've been through this before; but rules were never Mal's strong suit. So, again, Regina explained that when they married, her wealth became Leopold's. It all sat in a vault at the bank that he personally oversaw, and his signature was required to access it. If Leopold said she could dip into it, for any reason, she could. But if he said she couldn't, his word was final.

"You know I'll give Henry a happy Christmas," Mal says, her voice gentler than it was before. "He—"

"What if he can't come to you?"

"Why couldn't he? He always does for school breaks."

"Leo mentioned something about him needing extra tutoring."

"It's not Catholic school. Those teachers will go home for the holiday, too."

"Perhaps—"

"The headmaster likes me. I'll talk to him."

Pressing her eyes closed, Regina nods and draws in a shaky breath. "I hate this arrangement."

"I know you do."

"When I picked that school, I thought—"

"We both did."

"Well, you might, but—" Her voice stops as she thinks about Henry and the morning she'd left him at the school, promising to visit often and promising that he'd have so many friends and adventures, he'd barely have time to miss her. "What if he thinks I don't lo—"

"Don't you dare say that, Regina," Mal warns. "Henry knows you love him."

She doesn't reply. She's not so sure that he does.

"Regina. He knows."

"Well, regardless, I just… figured I'd let you know that you don't have to buy a ticket or—"

"I could still buy him a ticket. Leopold Blanchard doesn't control my money."

She smiles a bit wistfully at that. She'd considered asking. "But what would Henry be coming home to? A father who would prefer he not be there?" She can hear Mal's voice hitch at the back of her throat, biting back her words. "It just… wouldn't be fair to Henry. He'd pick up on the tension."

"Arthur is coming to visit. He leaves on Tuesday."

"He told me," Regina says. "I was planning on packing up a trunk of things for Henry to send—"

"You could put yourself in a trunk," Mal says, sounding both playful yet serious. "He'd let you out as soon as you boarded the ship. You wouldn't be stuck in there the whole voyage."

At that, Regina can't help but laugh. "That's… ridiculous and it'd absolutely get him kicked off the ship."

"Suppose you just had to stay in the trunk until you got to the dock, and he actually had a boarding pass waiting for you. That could—"

"You're very attached to this odd plan."

Mal laughs. "This is what you get for calling at such an ungodly hour."

"Fair."

"When did you last see Henry?" she asks, shifting the conversation.

"Last Saturday."

"How was he?"

"Happy," Mal says gently. "You weren't wrong in assuming he'd be surrounded by friends."

She smiles, but her throat tightens. "That's… that's good."

"He taught me how to play this card game one of his friends taught him where you have to grab cards quickly. I think I jammed my finger."

Again, she smiles as tears well in her eyes. "Did he… mention me? Or—"

Mal sighs. "I mentioned you."

"And?"

"We made a Christmas card for you. He wrote a sweet little note."

"Well, I'll be eagerly awaiting that." There's a long pause between them after that, and she can tell there's something that Mal isn't saying. "I made up a care package the other day. I found a copy of Treasure Island and I bought him some winter things—a hat, a scarf, and some gloves—and I want to get some of that hot chocolate he likes so much. I'm hoping to mail it next week." Drawing in a breath, she thinks of the note she nearly wrote, alluding to the possibility of the visit she'd been so sure that she could arrange. "I know it's not the same as—"

"He's used to this arrangement. All his friends are in similar situations."

"Are they?" she scoffs. "His friends have fathers who want nothing to do with them?"

"Well, to be frank, Henry's not exactly in that situation, either, is he?" Mal sighs. "What I meant is that none of his friends have very much contact with their families during the school year. He doesn't feel different or realize there's anything unusual about his circumstances."

Regina swallows the lump at the back of her throat. "You know, it's probably selfish to say—"

"Something tells me that it's not."

"I… I know that Henry's okay where he is. He's well cared for at that school, and he has you nearby. He's always telling me about his friends and teachers, and though I'm not at all convinced that this whole arrangement isn't going to result in him hating me later on in life, I can concede that it's working right now."

"But?"

"But, I just… Mal I am so lonely. I miss him so much."

"Of course you do."

"Henry was… well he's all I had."

"You have me."

"And you're not here."

"You have Arthur. He's your friend."

"He tolerates me because he's afraid of you."

"So?"

"It's not the same."

"I'll let him know he has to do a better job of faking it."

Regina laughs softly and shakes her head. "Perhaps if Arthur were around more, I wouldn't be throwing myself at Leopold's…uh, supplier."

She bites down on her lip, suddenly very aware that their line is not secure and any operator could be listening in. And while her dirty laundry is bad enough, she wouldn't want to out Robin or say anything that could get him into serious trouble.

"Leo's supplier?"

"Yes, um… you know how he loves to throw parties. It's insane how much… shrimp and caviar we go through."

"Ah, of course," Mal murmurs, clearing her throat. "But that's not the part that I needed clarity on, Regina." She pauses as if waiting for the details to be filled in, but when Regina offers nothing in reply, she sighs loudly. "You said something about throwing yourself at him?"

"That… might be a little strong."

"Explain."

Regina feels her cheeks warm. "I asked him to stay for… a bite to eat. I knew he wouldn't. I'm not even sure why I asked. Apparently, I enjoy the embarrassment of being rejected."

"Rejected? Regina, that is probably a little strong, too."

Regina's eyes roll. "I… was pathetic."

"Can you, perhaps, tell me what happened without the self-deprecation? It's far too early to splice apart the story from your own, and likely inaccurate, interpretation of it."

"I told you. I asked him to stay for a bit. He declined."

"But you wanted him to stay."

"I wouldn't have asked him if I didn't."

"Why?"

Biting at her bottom lip, Regina curls the phone cord between her fingers. "I… don't understand what you're asking exactly."

"Why did you want him to stay? You usually steer clear of anyone having anything to do with Leopold."

"He's… different."

"Is he now?" Mal laughs, obviously amused. "Tell me more."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Is he cute?"

"Mal, we're not twelve—"

"People over the age of twelve do still have the ability to notice another person's attractiveness. In fact, I'd say that after the age of twelve, that ability gets a bit sharper."

"Mal—"

"Your hesitation tells me that you do find him attractive."

"Well yes, but—"

"What's attractive about him?"

Regina's eyes roll and her cheeks flush, and possibly for the first time since Robin left, she's glad that there's no one around to see her blushing like a giddy schoolgirl with a crush. "He… smells like forest."

Mal laughs out in a burst, and in spite of herself, Regina can't help but smile. "Oh my god—"

"He does! And it's… quite pleasant, actually."

From there, she goes into a full recap, recounting her first few interactions with Robin Locksley—from her snapping at him on the first meeting to the letter of apology that he'd written to her. At that, she hears Mal laugh a little, but she continues on, explaining that there's just something about him that she likes. It's probably that he was willing to challenge her and it's probably also in part that each time they've interacted, they've started with a clean slate. He doesn't seem to be keeping score and he doesn't seem to be overly influenced by what he thinks he knows about her—and she'd realized that night that he treats her like a person, not a possession or a bother, and that was something so incredibly rare. Her stomach flutters as she moves on from the heavier details of their interactions to tell Mal about Robin's curly-haired, dimple-cheeked little boy and what a good father Robin seems to be.

"I don't quite know why I'm so drawn to him, but—"

"I do," Mal says flatly. "He's the anti-Leopold."

Regina's eyes narrow with curiosity. "What?"

"He's everything that your husband isn't."

She hadn't really considered it that way, but it did make sense; after all, it was that same notion that initially drew her to Daniel—and upon that realization her mood fell.

She doesn't respond to Mal's observation, instead letting herself get lost in her own thoughts.

There was no denying that she was lonely. That's what initially drew her to Daniel and now, that was what was driving her to Robin. The difference was that she now recognized the pattern. Daniel had been fully aware of what it would mean to be involved with a married woman, but they'd been naive to think things could end well for them. The rules that bound her to her husband were cruel, but clear. She didn't have a way out, and fate didn't hesitate to remind her of that.

"Regina? Are you still on the line?"

"Yes."

She hears Mal swallow. "So, are you going to… have a second go at inviting him to stay the next time you see him? You obviously like him, and it doesn't sound like he rejected you. It just sounds like tonight didn't work out. Sometimes things don't when they're spur of the moment. Maybe something more planned out—"

"I'm married."

"So?"

"Mal—"

"All the women I date are married."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"Of course it is."

"It's only different because you think you deserve to be lonely."

There's a long pause.

It's not untrue, but she isn't the only person who mattered—and besides that the idea of a love affair was all in her head. Or maybe it was in Mal's. Regardless, though, it didn't matter. It wasn't real.


	5. Chapter 5

"So, who is she?"

Robin blinks. "What?"

"Who is she?" John repeats, an annoying smirk stretching across his lips.

"I don't know what—"

"Oh, come on," John cuts in, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table opposite Robin. "I've known you your whole goddamn life, and I know that look. So tell me. Who is she?"

For a moment, Robin just stares, not really sure what to say. Of course, there is a she he's been thinking about, but not in the way that John seems to think; and even if he did confide, what is that he'd have to say?

"Is it because I'm Marian's brother? Is it weird to—"

"What? No. No, it's… it's not that."

"Then what is it?"

"Other than the fact that I don't know what you're talking about?"

John's eyes roll. "You're pining."

"I'm not pining over her—" His voice halts just a half second too late and he grimaces down at the glass of whiskey he's been nursing as though it betrayed him. "It's not like that."

"Then what's it like?" John asks gingerly, grinning like he picked the winning horse at the track. "And now that we've established that there is a her, who is she?"

Robin hesitates. Before the Blanchards were his customers, they were John's, and unlike Robin, John has no qualms about being friendly with his customers.

"I was thinking about Regina Blanchard."

John blinks. He looks disappointed.

"What do you know about her?"

For a moment, John just stares at him with a hesitant gaze, obviously not wanting to encourage whatever he thinks is going through his friend's head, but clearly already feeling guilty about withholding the information he does have.

"She's… different," he murmurs carefully. "She's got walls up around her, and is very selective of who she lets in, and the rules constantly change."

"I noticed the walls—"

"Mm," John nods, his eyes narrowing. "Don't get too close, you never know when the moat is suddenly going to fill and the sharks start to circle."

"No one keeps sharks in a moat."

"That's not the point."

"I know," Robin murmurs, taking a long sip of his whiskey. "I just… there's something about her…"

"Well, she's gorgeous. That could be that something."

"She is," Robin admits. "But, it's not that. She said something to me the first time we met, and I can't quite shake it."

"What did she say?"

"That she only lets people see what she wants them to see." He looks up, watching as John considers that—and watching as John dismisses it. "It's… more than just... rumor control or whatever, it's… her whole personality." He grimaces as he fumbles with his words, not quite sure how to explain it in a way that doesn't make her seem manipulative or conniving. "Never mind."

"No, I… I want to understand," John says, looking a bit uncomfortable as he offers a shrug and adds, "You… seem to like her."

"I do like her," Robin replies, the ease of that statement surprising even him. "She's like a puzzle."

John's eyes narrow again. "That's… not necessarily a quality you'd want in a girlfriend."

"Who said anything about wanting her to be my girlfriend?"

Suddenly, John's eyes are wide and his brows arched. "That lost puppy dog look you had when I first came in."

Robin frowns. "I like her. I'd like to be her friend, but not only does she live in a world that's completely different from the one you and I live in, she's also married—"

"You sound disappointed."

"What?"

"That she's married."

Robin hesitates, drawing his glass of whiskey up to his lips and taking a long sip. The more he got to know Leopold Blanchard, the less he liked him. He was oblivious to the real world. He was one of the few men who came through the war unscathed. He was too old to fight and too young to have a child who'd have been called up. He went through the war years selling bonds and making a killing off of others' need to do their part, all the while continuing on with his extravagant parties to "brighten up the mood" as if one night of fun could even put a bandage on the stress and worry that came with someone you love being sent to the , when the war ended everything went back to the way it was—the pain and suffering so many faced meant nothing to him.

Then, there was Regina.

Over the course of the last three months, he'd gotten a few rare glimpses into the Blanchards' marriage, and each new glimpse that he got seemed uglier than the last.

Leopold loved to be the center of attention. He loved to be loved. He was good-natured while the booze was flowing and he fawned over his friends and guests, stopping at nothing to ensure they were enjoying himself. He was known to give expensive gifts—one of the house's footmen had hinted that he'd be getting a gold pocket watch that Christmas—and he loved to play the part of the hero, making a big show of giving out loans to people he knew could never pay them back and making large donations so long as his name was prominently displayed in the inevitable thank you that would follow. Some of it was probably genuine—especially where his daughter was concerned—but after getting to know him in a less-than-public setting, he saw another side to him. His was distant, cold, and aloof, and if you couldn't advance his reputation, he had no use for you.

That was his problem with Regina.

She did nothing for Leopold's image.

For so long, the attributes Robin had hated about Regina Blanchard were likely the things she was obliged to do on her husband's behalf—the press, the charities, the opulence—because the more he got to know her, the less fitting those things seemed. Even that first meeting between them when she'd snapped now seemed different. Not only had she offered a profuse and seemingly sincere apology, she hadn't been short or curt since then; and it wasn't until now that he wondered why she, the lady of the house and the supposed hostess, was sent to receive an order in the place of a footman or the butler.

In the handful of times he'd encountered both Blanchards, Leopold barely acknowledged his wife's presence; and when he did and didn't think that anyone was watching, he was cruel. The way he spoke to her that night was likely something of the norm. Regina didn't seem surprised by his tone and the desperation in her voice implied that his reaction was expected. She was used to it.

"You know," John says, looking him square in the eye. "Regina Blanchard is known to have her affairs. I know that's not your style, but—" His voice trails off and he shrugs. "I'm just saying—"

"I don't want to have an affair with her, I just…" His eyes close as his voice trails off and his head falls back. "I was just thinking about her and… I just… I feel for her. She's trapped, and she's lonely…" Again, his voice trails off as he looks up. "Did you know that she has a son?"

"Vaguely."

"Did you ever see him? The Blanchards were your customers for a long time. Did you ever meet the boy?"

John shakes his head. "I think he was already away at school by then."

"He's eight."

"I know."

"I can't imagine having to send Roland—"

"Have is a strong word. They didn't have to send that boy to school an ocean away."

"I said that to her once."

"You said that to Regina?"

Robin nods. "She said she was trying to protect him—and I felt like an absolute heel." John's lips purse as if there's something he's holding back, something he wants to say but isn't sure he should. "What?"

"Well, you know… about the boy…"

Robin's eyes narrow, remembering the rumor about the Major General Regina had allegedly had an affair with. "What about him?"

"His father—"

"Isn't Leopold Blanchard?"

"So, you do know."

"Not really. I heard the same rumors you did. Arthur Pendragon—that was the name of the Major General who turned up in all the sordid stories, wasn't it?—the soldier from the Red Cross—"

"No," John cuts in. "Not him." Taking a breath, he shakes his head and sighs. "Do you remember Tinka? The spunky blonde girl I dated for a while? Just before the war—"

"Yes. I thought you'd marry her. Marian and I really liked her, too."

"Well, that is a story for another time, but… she was a maid at the Blanchards' house for awhile."

"Ah—"

"About nine years ago."

Robin's brow arches. "Oh."

"The Blanchards fought a lot back then, and apparently, Regina was spending a lot of time at the country club."

"That doesn't seem so unusual."

"At the country club... in the stables... with a particular stableboy." John grins tightly. "Regina took riding lessons from him. Jumping fences and going up difficult trails, that sort of thing."

Robin shrugs. That doesn't seem so unusual. "So? Lots of women ride horses competitively these days."

"Except that Regina's been riding horses longer than she's been walking."

"So, you think—"

"I know," John says. "His name was Daniel. He was a nice enough guy, and Tink was one of the maids assigned to Regina's room. She saw and heard things—"

"I can't blame her for having affairs," Robin says, his voice piquing defensively. "Her husband is horrible to her. You should have heard him tonight."

"And I'm not blaming her. I'm just… stating what I know."

"Right—"

"So, it makes sense that she'd send the boy away to protect him. That part of her story checks out."

Robin nods, considering it. It's a story that makes far more sense than the story about Arthur Pendragon, the Major General Regina was friendly with throughout the war and who from the outside looking in, was very happily married to a woman named Guinevere. They had a fairytale-like life together—a nice house, two beautiful children—he'd be an idiot for throwing it all away.

"And, uh… I guess you could say that's why Tink went away, too."

"What?"

"Regina fired her just before she went to Newport. It was the summer her son was born." John smiles, but his eyes seem sad—and finally, it seems like he has an actual concrete reason to dislike Regina Blanchard. "She knew too much."

"Do you ever hear from Tink?"

"No," he says. "The last I heard from her was the day she left. Her parents came over from Norway. They all started a new life in New York, or maybe it was Boston—" He shakes his head. "I was too upset that things ended so abruptly. I didn't really care to listen."

"I'm sorry—"

John sighs and shrugs, brushing it off. "It's how life goes." He pauses for a moment, again hesitating. "You know, uh… Daniel didn't make it home. He was captured and held as a prisoner of war, and… well... he didn't make it. He was a good guy, though. He and I shared a drink or two before shipping out."

Robin doesn't say anything; instead, he finds himself wondering how Regina's life might have been different had Daniel lived, wondering if the two of them had some sort of scheme for after the war, and thinking of how heartbreaking it must've been for her to have it all go up in smoke, leaving her trapped and alone to guard what was left of the life she wanted for herself.

He understands that.

He lived it himself.

"So, she lost her… lover, for lack of a better word, and now she's had to all but give up their son."

John nods. "Seems that way."

Robin smirks. "But you still don't like her."

"You don't have to like someone to empathize with them."

"Fair."

"And as much as I hate to admit this, you and Regina Blanchard aren't so different."

Robin's brow arches. "Oh, no?"

"No," John says, shaking his head. "You're both living in the fog of grief." A smirk edges over his lips. "Who knows? Maybe the two of you could help bring each other out of it."

"I'm surprised you're encouraging that."

John shrugs. "But what does it matter?" His smirk brightens as he stifles a laugh. "You're not interested, right?"

Huffing, he sits back in his chair folding his arms. The sensible response would be to say that he isn't interested in Regina Blanchard because there were a thousand reasons that he shouldn't be interested in her—but he was.

He'd be lying if he said that he didn't think about her often—that after every interaction he played it again and again in his head. That was what spurred him to write that apology to her and now that he considered it, that was what spurred him through the Blanchards' empty house that night. He'd wanted to find her. He'd wanted to see her. Needing to drop off the crates of liquor was just the excuse he'd told himself—and now, he found himself wishing that he'd stayed. After all, Roland was fast asleep when he'd arrived home, cuddled up underneath his blankets and snoring lightly, and the build that began prickling at his core when he'd pulled away from the house, leaving her alone and upset, was practically eating him alive. He should've stayed for that drink, if only to give himself the peace of mind in knowing that she was okay.


	6. Chapter 6

Stepping outside, Regina looks up to see fluffy snowflakes swirling down from the clouds.

Henry loved the snow.

She smiles wistfully as she remembers him twirling in it, his arms outstretched and his little face turned up toward the white sky. He smiled and laughed as he spun around, begging her to twirl with him—and as always when it came to Henry, she couldn't resist.

He'd love a day like today.

Swallowing back the lump in her throat, she refuses to let a happy memory turn sad. So instead of lingering on it and letting herself remember, she pushes it back and heads to the lot behind the school where her car is parked.

Tucking her chin down, she burrows into her coat and she trudges along, only stopping and looking up to fish her keys from her pocket.

And that's when she notices Roland Locksley sitting on one of the swings. His little feet dangle above the ground and his little mitten-encased hands hold onto the ropes as he watches it snow. Despite being all alone, he doesn't look particularly worried or perplexed, and for a moment, she hesitates, reminding herself that it's not her place to pry.

But as she holds her keys and the wind picks up, a million different scenarios swirl around in her head—from why he's sitting on the swing all alone to what might happen if he stays there—and before she can second guess her decision to make this her business, she walks toward him, calling out his name.

Roland looks up—there's no recognition in his eyes, but he also doesn't look afraid.

"What are you doing out here all by yourself?" Roland swallows, looking down at his feet and then back up at her, likely wondering if she's someone he can trust. "I, um—I know we haven't met, but I work at the school sometimes, and I know your dad. My name—"

"Did my papa send you?" Roland asks in a burst, his eyes wide as he looks up at her. "He didn't come for me."

"Oh, no… no, he didn't send me to get you."

Roland's face falls. "Oh."

"So, he's… he's running late?"

"I think so," Roland says, his gloved hands rubbing at the chains holding up the swing. "Usually when he can't he sends my Uncle John."

"But he didn't come either, huh?"

Roland shakes his head, biting down on his lip as he looks back to her, and it's clear that he's worried. "This has never happened," he adds quietly. "Someone _always_ comes for me. He never forgets."

At that, her stomach tightens. What Robin does for work is dangerous and illegal; and while it's a well-kept and open secret, she has no doubt that the clientele he's accumulated over the years would readily turn their backs on him should he ever be caught, or even to deflect consequences for themselves if they were ever caught. Leopold wouldn't hesitate, and neither would any of his friends.

"Would you mind if I stay with you for a bit?"

Roland grins and she takes that as her response.

He doesn't say anything as she sits down on the swing beside him, crossing her ankles as he she steadies herself and tries to think of something comforting to say.

"You know, I have a son—"

"Is he my age?"

"No, he's a little older than—"

"Does he go here?" Roland asks. "Sometimes I get to play kickball with the bigger kids at recess," he tells her. "It's because I'm such a fast runner. I can bunt the ball _and_ still make it to first base _without_ sliding."

She grins at Roland's enthusiasm. "My son goes to school in London."

"England!?"

"Yes—"

"My papa comes from there," he says. "But I've never gotten to go." He frowns a little. "Papa says it's too far."

"It is far," Regina admits. "And I don't get to go as much as I'd like to."

"So, you don't get to see your son much?"

She shakes her head, her stomach tightening a bit as she considers that. "Not nearly as much as I'd like."

"I'd miss my papa if I had to go to school far away."

Taking a breath, she musters as smile. "We write letters and I send him things. Sometimes we talk on the phone—"

"What kinds of things?"

"Books that he likes. Toys, sometimes." She considers it, thinking of her last care package. "I bought a canister of hot chocolate to send the last time—"

"I _love_ hot chocolate!"

She can't help but laugh at Roland's emphatic declaration. His whole face lights up as he smiles, his dimples sinking sweetly into his cheeks as he sits up a little straighter on the swing. "My son likes his with whipped cream and cinnamon."

"I've never tried that. Papa usually puts marshmallows in mine."

Hesitantly, she looks away from Roland, staring down the desolate road that leads up the school and then turning her eyes up to the gray sky. At some point, she was going to have to make a decision about what to do if Robin didn't arrive soon—after all, they couldn't sit on these swings waiting for very much longer. It was going to get darker and colder, and if Robin didn't come for him, that likely meant...

She takes a breath.

She won't let herself continue with that thought.

"You know," she begins, decidedly pushing away her worry. "I haven't sent the package yet." Roland blinks, not quite following her lead. "I bought two canisters of the hot chocolate. I was going to save the second one and send it later in the winter, so… if you'd like to try it…"

Again, Roland lights up, and she can't help but laugh. "Really?"

"Yeah. We can heat up the water in the school."

Roland looks to the schoolhouse, then back to her. "But no one's there. How will we get in?"

A grin twists onto her lips as she reaches into her pocket, pulling out her keyring. "I told you. I work at the school sometimes, and that means I have a key."

Roland hops off of his swing and takes her hand, letting her take the lead. First, they go to her car and open up the box she had prepared to send to Henry. He waits, doing his best to be patient—squirming with anticipation as he sits on the seat beside her—and when she finally unwraps it, he smiles brightly and takes her by the hand, barely giving her time to shut the car door as he tugs her toward the school.

As he leads her around the building, she finds her chest tightening as she thinks of Henry at Roland's age—so happy, eager, and wonderfully exhausting. As she fidgets with the key in the lock, she thinks of her son, remembering how something as simple as a mug of hot chocolate on a snowy day would have delighted him —and she wonders if it still would.

She's lost in thought as she feels the key catch in the lock, and at the same time, she feels Roland let go of her hand—and by the time she looks over, he's already a few feet away, running toward the parking lot as Robin hops down from his truck.

"Papa!"

She smiles a bit wistfully as Robin drops to his knees, letting Roland crash into him before wrapping his arms around the boy as he lifts him off the ground, hugging him tightly as he kisses his messy hair.

Awkwardly, she stands there, watching as Roland pulls back and watching as Robin listens to him talk—and then, she offers a little wave as Robin looks past his son, looking directly to her. He smiles as he looks back to Roland, then, after shifting Roland onto his hip, he starts toward her.

"I'm so glad you arrived safely," she says as he approaches, not sure what else to say. "We were waiting—"

"Thank god you were here, and thank you for staying with him."

Her cheeks flush—and she's glad for the cold that hides it. "Oh, it was no—"

"Please don't say that it was nothing," he interjects. "I was out of my mind with worry, and I—" He stops and shakes his head. "What started off as the minor annoyance of a flat tire turned into a nearly three hour ordeal all the way across town. I had visions of him walking alone and someone snatching him up and—"

"Things happen. He's safe and you're here now. That's what matters."

Robin nods. His lips part, but no words come. She realizes that she should excuse herself and let them go, but she can't quite find the right words for that. So, she stands there, waiting for him to supply them.

"Uh, Roland said something about hot chocolate—"

"Oh!" She laughs and holds out the canister of Cadbury Cocoa. "He was awfully excited about trying this. You should take it. Make him a big cup of it when you get home."

Robin's eyes fall away from hers to look at the bright yellow can. "Oh, I was… sort of hoping that…"

"I told him that you make it special for your son," Roland says, interrupting in a burst.

"Yes," she murmurs, looking between them. "With whipped cream and cinnamon."

He nods, and then a bit sheepishly, he looks to her. "I thought maybe I could cash in that rain check." Her brows arch up as his eyes press closed. "Actually, no. I take that back. I'm sure you have better things to do, and you've already spent enough time—"

"I'll have you know that the twenty minutes I spent with your son was the highlight of my day." She grins as his eyes open. "I don't have any plans this evening, and something tells me you could use a few minutes to decompress, anyway." At that, he laughs and nods as he hugs Roland a little closer. "Come on, let's go in," she says as she turns back to the school house and pulls open the door. "And, you know, cinnamon isn't the only thing I can add to the hot chocolate," she adds.

Her stomach flutters as she leads them inside of the school, grinning as Robin sets Roland down—and immediately, Roland takes him by the hand, showing him an art project of his that's displayed in a little showcase in the hallway as they make their way back to the cafeteria.

"Truly," Robin begins as she unlocks the kitchen door, "I don't know how I can repay you for—"

"There's nothing to repay," she tells him. "I'm glad to have stayed with him. Things happen. Don't beat yourself up over a flat tire, besides—"

"Papa! I sit over there!" Roland interrupts, pointing to a table by the window. "That's my seat for lunchtime!" She watches as Robin looks, grinning gently. "My friends sit at the table, too."

"You're lucky to have a window seat," Robin says—ignoring the little chuckle that escapes her—likely not knowing how else to respond. "Why don't you go and wait over there while Regina and I heat up the hot chocolate."

"Do you know where the spoons and napkins are?" Regina asks, looking to Roland, who nods proudly in response. "Can you get us some? I tend to make a mess of myself whenever I have hot chocolate."

"Me, too," Roland admits as he blushes—and then, he takes off, running toward the cabinet where the napkins and cutlery are kept.

Robin follows her into the kitchen and leans against the counter, watching as she fills a kettle and takes out three mugs—and when she pulls a flask from her purse, he laughs out.

"Don't tell," she whispers. "But this flask is often what gets me through the day."

"I wouldn't dream of it." She grins as she pours a little whiskey into two of the mugs, then returns the flask to her purse. "Regina, I, um… I'm glad we've got a minute to ourselves," he begins. "I just wanted to apologize—"

"I told you, there's nothing to apologize—"

"Not because of today."

She blinks as she looks up from the kettle. "Oh?"

"About the other night?"

Her eyes widen and her cheeks warm, remembering their awkward little exchange in the cellar. "You know, that drink I offered you wouldn't have been my first, or fifth of the night. I was—"

"I worried about you after I left."

Her heart beats a little faster as she looks back to the kettle, pretending to adjust the flame on the stove. "Why's that?"

"You and I both know that I overheard at least some of that fight you had with Leopold—"

"Fights between Leo and I are commonplace. You shouldn't—"

"You were upset and I just left."

"You had to get back to your son. He's always a valid reason for—"

"Roland said that you called me your friend."

She blinks, not realizing that the conversation had shifted. "Oh. Yes, I did. I just didn't know how else to describe our relationship. Calling you the man that my husband gets his illegal booze from seemed… inappropriate, given Roland's age. It seemed easier to simplify, even if I overstated—"

He grins and she catches a glimpse of his dimples. "You didn't overstate anything."

Her brow arches as she looks back to him. "You think of me as a friend?"

He hesitates, but nods. She takes a shaky breath as he holds her gaze, looking at her with such kindness and sincerity. "Yes, and friends don't just leave one another when they're upset, so for that I am sorry."

"It's… probably for the best," she says, shrugging as she remembers the sharp cut of rejection. "I wasn't in a good mindset. I'd have been miserable company and tend to make terrible decisions when alcohol is involved. You likely did me a favor." Turning away from him, she goes to the refrigerator to find the milk—and she can feel his eyes still on her. "But if you insist on making it up to me," she says, turning back to face him. "You can get that powdered sugar off the shelf." She points to it and sighs. "It'll save me the embarrassment of inevitably falling off the counter. Even in heeled shoes, I'm too short to reach it."

He laughs softly and reaches for it, handing her the canister so that she can start making the whipped cream. The kettle whistles as she's still mixing, and without needing to be asked, he turns off the burner and pours the water into the mugs. She brings the bowl of whipped cream to where he stands and he offers her a spoon, letting her stir in the cocoa mix while he adds a hefty dollop of whipped cream to the top of each mug. She grins softly to herself as she reaches for the cinnamon—and when she looks up, she finds that Robin's watching her with a curious look in his eye.

Her cheeks flush. "What?"

"I was just thinking about the first time that I met you."

Her eyes widen. "When I bit your head off?"

"No, when you rightly put me in my place." He grins and reaches for a tray. "I was wrong to make assumptions about you."

He doesn't say any more. Instead, he loads the mugs of hot chocolate onto the tray and carries them off into the cafeteria where Roland sits, waiting by the window and watching as the snow piles up on the window sill.

For awhile, the three of them sit there, talking and sipping the hot chocolate. Roland does most of the talking, telling her everything there is to know about the kindergarten program. He tells her stories about his teacher and his friends, stories about the things he's learning and the games he plays at recess, and she finds herself hanging on his every word.

Every now and then, she catches a glimpse of Robin, sitting back and listening, watching her and Roland talk with a look of amusement on his face, and it's not until they leave when the ache settles into her chest as her thoughts drift back to Henry and all of the moments like this one she'll never have with him.


	7. Chapter 7

For two days, Roland has talked non-stop about Regina.

He talks about how nice she was and how pretty she was, and most importantly, how kind she was to him. Roland tells him again and again how she sat with him on the swings and how she made hot chocolate _just_ for him, and despite the fact that Robin was sitting right there, he recounts every bit of the conversation they had as they drank the hot chocolate. He tells him about how Regina asked him all about his friends and school, asking about the subjects he liked best and the recess games that he liked to play, and each time he retells the story, he asks a million questions, too—why he's never met her if she's one of Robin's friends, if maybe one day when Henry comes home from school if he can come over to play with him, and whether or not he can learn to make hot chocolate like she does.

And the more Roland talks about Regina, the more he finds himself thinking of her—and the more he finds it impossible to think of much else.

Roland wasn't the only one taken by her kindness.

As they all sat at the table, sipping on their cocoa and chatting as they watched it snow, he couldn't help but notice the attention Regina gave to Roland—and that attention came from actual interest. She wasn't kind to Roland to earn points with him. She asked him all sorts of things about his experiences at school, listening carefully and asking follow up questions, genuinely laughing at jokes only a five-year old would think were funny, never once looking at her watch or shifting the conversation to a topic Roland couldn't be involved in. The three of them sat there for well over an hour, and he suspected she'd have gladly sat there an hour more had he not (albeit regretfully) suggested that it was getting late and that it was time to go home. Her interaction with Roland reminded him of the interaction she'd had with the little girl who'd skinned her knee—and the more he thought about the kindness she bestowed to other people's children, the crueler it seemed she was now not allowed to properly mother her own son.

He wasn't sure how he ended up on the road that would lead him to the Blanchards' house—he told himself that he was trying to find a shortcut home after leaving the house of another client who lived across town, but he was well aware that that was a lie—but he found himself slowing down as he approached it, trying to come up with an excuse to stop and see her.

Finally, he mustered a flimsy excuse—something about checking in to see if either of the Blanchards wanted to add anything to his order before he or John trekked up to see Marco later that week—and as he pulled into the driveway, he rehearsed it, hoping it'd convince the butler to show him in and hoping the butler wouldn't default to only asking Leopold.

But when the door opened, instead of saying what he'd rehearsed, he simply asked if Regina was available—and to his surprise, he was let in and led to the drawing room to wait.

After a few minutes, Regina appeared in the doorway, an amused smile stretched across her lips.

"And to what do I owe this surprise?" she asks, breezing into the room and closing the door behind herself. "I barely believed it when Edgar said you'd come."

He offers a sheepish grin. "My son was quite taken by you," he tells her. "And I was hoping for the chance to properly thank you."

"There's really no need. I've told you that."

He nods. "Yes, but you see, what could have easily been one of those defining and scary moments when Roland was faced with the reality that I wouldn't always be there for him turned into an absolutely magical afternoon, and—"

He stops abruptly, thinking of Henry and the age he would have been when Regina dropped him off at boarding school, but Regina looks unfazed—and he wonders if she's truly unbothered or if she's just gotten used to him jamming his foot into his mouth.

"Anyway, we've now had hot chocolate a few times after dinner, and I'll have you know that despite making it just as you did, I can't seem to master the cinnamon to whipped cream ratio."

She grins. "Something tells me he's only saying that to make you keep trying."

Robin laughs. "You spend a few hours with my son and can already read him like a book."

"Henry's the same way," she says easily. "One cookie is never enough to know if he likes it. He always has to have a second, just to be sure."

"I suppose all children are that way."

"Master manipulators?" she asks, her brow arching as her grin turns coy. "Indeed they are."

He watches as she makes her way to the little bar by the fireplace. She pours herself a drink and this time, when she offers to pour a second drink for him, he doesn't decline it.

They settle together in the plush chairs opposite the fire, sharing anecdotal stories about parenthood and the struggles they've faced in doing it all practically alone.

It shouldn't surprise him that so many of their experiences are similar—after all, they're both members of a disillusioned generation marred by the horrors of war and tragedy, a generation that hides their pain behind the glitz and glamor of being labeled as one of "the bright young things" by the generation that came before them.

But, still, it does surprise him—and as Regina tells story after story about Henry's childhood, he finds himself easily putting himself into her position and Roland into Henry's. He laughs at one particularly familiar story, empathizing more than she could ever know as she recounts Henry's once-steadfast and simultaneous belief in monsters beneath his bed and a guardian angel who tucked him in at night but often showed up late, all in an effort to stay up past his bedtime and sneak in an extra story or two.

And as he listens and nods along, he can't help but notice the loving tone of her voice or the way her whole face lights up as she talks about her son.

And he feels a pang of guilt.

When he first met her and made the comment about sending Henry away, it'd come from a place of ignorance. He'd understood better as she'd put him in his place, and he'd understood better when he heard the icy way her husband spoke about the boy—and now, as he listens to stories of Henry's toddlerhood and as he thinks of his own son, his heart aches for all she's had to forfeit, all the memories she'll never have.

"I can't imagine how difficult it is to be without him," he says as her voice trails off.

"What's important is that he's safe, and happy," she says, struggling to maintain her smile. "I miss him terribly and fear that he's going to grow up to resent me, but this is what's best right now."

His eyes narrow. He's not so sure, but he'd never say that aloud. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"In the spring," she tells him, her voice flat. "Mary Margaret wanted a trip for her birthday, and convincing her that London would be more fun than Paris was incredibly easy." She pauses and he can see her thoughts drifting back to spring, likely letting herself relish—or perhaps pine for—the time spent with her boy. "He came home the fall before that," she adds. "Leopold was on a trip out west—the Rockies or… somewhere he could hunt buffalo. I don't remember where he went off to, I was just glad that he did."

Robin hesitates. "He didn't want to see him?"

Regina shakes her head and for a moment, he thinks that might be her reply, and then she sighs. "I'm not sure what he wanted, but at that time, I didn't want them to see one another."

"Ah—"

"I wanted to enjoy the time I had with Henry, not worry about what Leo was thinking or what Leo thought Henry should be doing or—" She stops abruptly, her eyes narrowing a bit. "Henry's a bit of a sore subject between us."

"I gathered."

"He'll have a happy Christmas, though," she says, likely for her own benefit more than his. "Even from afar, I spoil him rotten."

"Well, if you have the means—"

She smiles. "Henry loves Christmas, so I'm not really sure that anything could ruin it for him."

"Does he stay at school?"

"No," she replies easily. "When I enrolled him in school, a friend of mine moved to London."

"Was that just a coincidence or was it planned?"

"Incredibly planned."

"Quite a good friend—"

"The best," Regina agrees, nodding. "And truly, Mallory was always quite desperate to get out of Middle of Nowhere, Maine, so she jumped at the opportunity. London is a much better fit for her."

"Regardless, I'm sure you were glad for it."

"Incredibly."

"And so Henry will spend Christmas with your friend?"

"He will," she murmurs, her eyes cast down to focus on her nearly empty glass. "Mal always gets a big tree and lets him help her decorate it. They string popcorn and dried cranberries for garlands, and make ornaments out of gingerbread. Henry loves it."

"That tree sounds better than what I usually serve for dinner."

She grins as she looks up at him. "The Christmases around here are… fairly nauseating."

"Oh?"

"Leo throws a party," she murmurs, laughing out when he feigns an overly dramatic look of shock. "We do a gift exchange in the morning, then go to church and then…"

"Two hundred people you don't know invade your home."

"Exactly."

"How quaint."

"Mm, and this year, he'll be announcing Mary Margaret's engagement, so it'll be all the more ridiculous."

"And that's why you wanted Henry to come home?"

"In part," she admits. "But also because I miss him terribly, especially around this time of the year—"

"The holidays have a way of doing that," he says, his thoughts suddenly shifting to Marian. "I'm not sure what it is about them that make them harder than all the other days, but—" He sighs, shaking his head, momentarily at a loss for words.

"Some years are harder than others. I don't know why."

"And this is one of the harder years."

"Yes," she tells him, her voice barely audible. "One of the worst."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

Momentarily, he hesitates. "Why do you need your husband's permission to go and see your son? You've got more money than most people could ever spend in a lifetime."

"On the contrary, my husband has more money than most people could ever spend in a lifetime. I have a tightly controlled and very closely monitored allowance."

Robin stares at her for a moment, and then his eyes sink closed. What a stupid question. Sure, Regina was married to one of the wealthiest men in the country and everyone knew she'd brought a considerable amount of her own wealth to their marriage—all of which became his as soon as their vows were said.

"I'm sorry, I should have thought that one out," he tells her as his eyes open. "I didn't think—"

"Of course you didn't. You're a man. You don't have to think of these sorts of things."

He grimaces, once more feeling like he'd shoved his foot into his mouth. "Regina, I'm—"

"Don't apologize. It was a simple question with an uncomfortable answer."

"Right—"

She laughs softly and takes the last sip of her whiskey—and then, she shifts the conversation back to easier subjects.

He tells her about Roland's first loose tooth, and she laughs when he describes the way Roland closes his eyes and holds his breath and wriggles the tooth, a mix of excited anticipation and dread washing over him.

Regina offers up the suggestion of giving him a piece of salt water taffy, a trick that worked for Henry who'd been overly anxious about his own first loose tooth.

They discuss other childhood milestones before eventually rounding back to Christmas—this time focusing on favorite toys. She does her best not to laugh when he describes a rather frightening stuffed bear John had given Roland two Christmases ago, and simultaneously they start singing the praises of the ever-popular Lincoln Log sets. Regina brightens as she explains that this year, she's sending Henry an erector set—marking his graduation from the wooden Lincoln logs that Roland still enjoys—he tentatively shares his plans to give Roland a Morse Code Telegraph set. Regina's lips press together as he explains that Roland's been eyeing it and dropping clues here and there, and he knows there was a letter to Santa that had to have requested it and as he sighs thinking of the steady beeping and clicking noises he'll likely be listening to non-stop until spring. Regina teases that perhaps Santa can bring him a big bottle of aspirin.

They get caught up in the discussion and before he knows it, the clock is striking three. A bit regretfully, he rises up and explains he has to go to collect Roland from school, and Regina practically shoos him from the drawing room, reminding him that he's already averted one potentially scarring incident at pickup time, he likely won't be so lucky a second time—and then, as he's pulling on his coat and snapping it up, Regina smiles.

"Ten shakes of cinnamon."

He blinks. "What?"

"In the hot chocolate," she says. "I put in ten shakes. It gives it a nice little zing."

"I'll test it out tonight," he tells her as she walks him to the door.

"You'll let me know?" She bites down her lip. "I'm... curious to know if it's actually off or if your kindergartener is conning you."

"I am positive it's the latter—"

At that, she smirks. It most likely is the latter. "This was nice," she tells him, her demeanor turning sincere as she pulls open the door and lets in a gust of cool air that makes her shiver. "I anticipated a rather boring afternoon of looking at a catalogue of flowers for the wedding. This was a far better use of time."

It hadn't really occurred to him that she might actually have other things to do that afternoon, and his visit lasted far longer than he anticipated that it would. "Oh, I… I didn't put you behind or—"

"No, no, no. Not at all," she's quick to say. "I didn't plan on giving the task much thought anyway."

"I enjoyed myself, too."

She hesitates for a moment, then looks up at him. "Then… perhaps we should do it again?"

He nods, reaching into his pocket to fish out his keys. "I'd like that."

"Good," she murmurs—then before he can go, Regina's hand presses to his arm. He looks to her hand, almost as if expecting her to remind him of something. But she says nothing. Instead, she leans in to peck his cheek, giving a sweet little kiss goodbye.

She pulls back and avoids catching his eye as she steps back into the house, leaving him standing on the doorstep feeling a bit dazed—and then, as he's leaving, he sees her in the window, offering a wave as she watches him go.


	8. Chapter 8

Since their impromptu afternoon visit, they've run into each other a handful of times.

One morning she'd been on her way to the bakery across the street to meet David Nolan's mother about a cake for the nearing engagement party. She'd been early, so she'd popped into the little diner where she stumbled upon Robin, sipping coffee and munching on a slice of toast. He'd invited her over and ordered her a cup. Another time, it'd been at the department store—she'd been buying a pack of new socks to send to Henry and he'd been picking up a Christmas gift for John. She'd only meant to say hello and it wasn't until a salesmen informed them that the store would be closing that they'd realized more than an hour had passed and said their sheepish goodbyes as they made their way to the parking lot.

Another time, she'd found him in the park with Roland. Robin stood, nursing a mug of coffee, as Roland played on the monkey bars—crossing them and climbing on top of them, hanging upside down and pulling himself up, showing off tricks that only someone with the flexibility of a small child could ever pull off. For a moment, she'd just stood back and watched as Robin clapped and cheered for him. It occurred to her that she should keep walking—that really, this was a private moment, different from the other times she'd run into him. The other times, he'd been alone; this time, he was spending time with his son. But Roland noticed her and waved, spurring Robin to turn around—and when he did, he smiled warmly and waved her over.

They'd sat together on the swings, talking and watching as Roland played until the dim sky turned from gray to black. When Robin called out to Roland that it was time to go home, she couldn't help her disappointment, just as she couldn't help the hope that bubbled up inside of her when he said that he hoped they'd bump into each other again, that he'd come to enjoy and anticipate their random little meetups.

Then, there was this morning.

Really, the cemetery is the last place she expects to run into him—though that had been naive, considering he, too, had a loved one buried there and she knew that he liked to start his day early with a visit to her grave. But still, as she stands there in the early morning fog at Daniel's grave with cold tears streaming down her cheeks, telling him that once again Henry would not be coming home for Christmas, trying to convey just how much she misses their boy, she doesn't expect to see Robin walking toward her on the cobblestone path—she didn't expect to see anyone.

Yet there he is.

He smiles and waves as he notices her, and when he gets close enough to see her tears, his smile is replaced by a look of concern.

"I'm sorry to interrupt—"

"You're not, really. I'm just—"

"You're upset."

She nods. "I… know he can't hear me, but—"

"I like to think the contrary."

She looks away. That would actually be worse. "I was just telling him about my… lack of plans for Christmas."

"You mean… Henry not coming home?"

Nodding, she looks back to the grave. "I know it's probably silly, but even admitting to a slab of stone what a failure I am as a mother—"

"Stop," he interjects, reaching out and taking her hand. "You are neither a failure as a mother nor is that just a slab of stone." He stops as his fingers wrap around her hand, giving it a tight squeeze, waiting for her to look up at him. "And I'd venture to say that _he_ would agree with me on at least my first point."

She watches as his eyes shift to Daniel's gravestone, and she draws in a shaky breath. "I… I don't know. I think he'd be terribly disappointed in me." Robin looks back to her and her eyes cast down. "Sometimes I think I've made every wrong decision."

"I think you've done the best you can."

"You didn't always think that."

"I was wrong."

"Were you?" she asks, looking back up at him. "Or are you just seeing what you want to see?"

Offering a huff and a chuckle, he smiles. "M'lady, you have no idea just how much I tried to see the worst in you." She can't help but smile a little at that, and when he gives her hand a little tug, she lets him lead her away from Daniel's grave. "Come on," he murmurs, "Let's sit down and chat for a minute, hm?"

Together they sit on a little bench beneath a willow tree—and before she's even conscious of it, she's telling him her most intimate secrets. She tells him about how she met Daniel and the love affair that ensued. She tells him about their post-war plans and the life they'd wanted to build together, and she admits how naive she'd been to actually believe any of it was possible. She tells him about the knot that formed in her stomach when Daniel shipped off to Europe and how it seemed to get tighter and tighter with every passing day—and she tells him about the day she learned that Daniel would never be coming back to her.

She stops there, needing a minute to collect her thoughts, a minute to recover and adjust to the ache in her chest that comes whenever she allows herself to relive that period of her life.

"Did Daniel know about Henry?"

She blinks. "What?"

"Daniel is Henry's father, isn't he?"

For a moment, she doesn't reply—and then she nods. "Yes. He is," she admits in a voice that's barely audible. "But, no, he didn't know. He couldn't have. I didn't even know it when he went missing."

"Can I ask you something?"

Looking over at him, she nods. She hadn't really expected another question after his last. None of what they were talking about was comfortable, and most people had a natural tendency to shy away from discomfort.

"You don't have to answer it, either. I'm just… I'm curious."

He hesitates, his question lingering on his lips, waiting for her to acknowledge that she has a choice in it. Then, when she nods, he draws in a breath and asks, "Then why the story about Arthur?"

A bit wistfully, she smiles. "Mal actually cooked that one up."

"Is Arthur aware of it?"

"Yes. Guinevere, too."

"Ah—"

"I was… terrified that Leopold was going to find out that he wasn't Henry's father. I was afraid of what he'd do to me and to Henry."

Robin's brow furrows. He's not quite understanding, but she knows that he won't ask.

So she volunteers the rest of the story.

The story she sold to Leopold was flimsy, at best. There were a million holes in it, and she was sure he'd noticed at least one of them. But he hadn't—at least not then—and she felt like she was only buying time, that sooner or later Leo would start to suspect.

So, Mal spun a story for her.

Arthur agreed to the charade. He'd always been fond of Daniel, and he felt an obligation to his friend's child, and for whatever reason—likely the absurdity of it all—Guinivere agreed to go along with it, too. She and Mal staged an argument knowing that it'd be overheard, and by the end of the week, everyone was whispering about the scandal surrounding the Blanchards.

"Looking back, it was all quite unnecessary."

"But now you're stuck with it."

She nods. "I didn't realize back then what a coward my husband is."

"How so?"

"He'd never do anything or admit to anything that made him look bad—and his wife having a love affair that resulted in a child would most certainly do that."

"Then why send Henry away?"

"Well, when I made the decision to send Henry to school in London, I hadn't quite realized just how cowardly Leo is. I was afraid he'd be cruel to him, that instead of lashing out at me, he'd lash out at Henry. After all, a child is an easier target and far less likely to bite back." She pauses for a moment, momentarily thinking back to the day when she made her decision—the day Leo offhandedly commented that Henry didn't look like him. "So I figured if Henry were out of sight, he'd be out of mind, and for the most part, that's true."

"But at the holidays—"

"It's harder."

"I see."

"If anyone found out that Henry wasn't Leo's, he'd be so embarrassed. He'd never actually admit it, it'd ruin the image he thinks he has to keep up."

"So, the story about Arthur is… to throw suspicion off of Daniel?"

"Not exactly," she murmurs. "You see, the thought of Arthur being Henry's father would absolutely play into Leo's insecurities." She sighs and shakes her head, a sardonic little laugh escaping her. "Leo is envious of everything that Arthur is—he envies his looks, his family, his military career, his reputation around town, his bank account—"

"But everyone knows Leopold Blanchard is loaded."

"But the Blanchard money pales in comparison to the Pendragon money." She smiles ruefully. "Part of the rumor is that Arthur doesn't know that Henry is his son, and given who Arthur is, there's no way he'd deny his own son. He'd claim him, scandal be damned."

Robin's eyes narrow as he considers it. "And if he claimed Henry, Henry would be able to inherit."

"And he'd be richer than Leopold."

"So, he'll never acknowledge it, even if he suspects."

"Not publicly. So as long as the rumor lingers, the less likely Henry and I are to find ourselves destitute."

For a moment, all Robin seems able to do is stare. "Why the hell did you marry such a small, pathetic man?" he finally asks. "I mean, you certainly had to have options."

"I did, at a time" she says, shrugging her shoulders as she looks over at him. "And then his wife died, and I inadvertently made an impression on Mary Margaret, and… the next thing I knew Leopold and my mother had the whole thing worked out."

"You had no say?"

"Oh, I had a lot to say. No one listened to me, though." At that, he scoffs and she enjoys that he finds the whole thing so ridiculous. "My father simply told me to make the best of it. I was marrying a very rich man and would have a comfortable life because of it."

Robin's mouth falls open. "That might be one of the stupidest things I've ever heard."

She nods—and a smile tugs up at the corners of her mouth. She doesn't tell this story to many. She doesn't talk about Daniel to anyone other than Mal and occasionally Arthur and Guinevere, and she most certainly doesn't trust many with her secrets about Henry's paternity.

"Thank you for, um… for listening and for not being critical of—"

"You don't need to thank me for being your friend."

Her head tips to the side. "Is that what we are?"

Robin laughs. "I… I don't quite know what it is that we are. I like you. I like you a lot, and I am not quite sure what to do with that." He shakes his head and his cheeks flush as he fidgets with his fingers. "I'm… I'm not good at this. I don't, um… do this sort of thing."

She grins. "And what exactly does that mean?" Robin suddenly looks like a deer in headlights, and she has to stifle the urge to laugh. "Well, whatever it means, I'm glad for it. I like having you in my life."

She watches as his features relax. "I like having you in my life, too," he tells her. "It's… been a long time since I've had any sort of companion, outside of John—"

"Are John and I the same type of companion?"

Again, Robin laughs—and this time she finds herself laughing with him. "No, no, not quite…" His voice trails off, and his face turns serious, but he says nothing.

She's not naive enough to think that this is easy for him—that any sort of relationship with her would be easy for him. For them to even be friends would be difficult for him to come to terms with; after all, despite growing up in the same small town, they were from different worlds. When they first met, that had been all too obvious. He came with preconceived notions about her and what her life was like, and the walls he had up were there for a reason. But when you tore all of that away, they weren't all that different—and slowly but surely, he'd come to see that.

And slowly but surely it seemed that they were rounding the corner past friendship and moving on to something deeper.

That, too, seemed to be foreign territory for him—and really, it was for her as well.

While she'd had the occasional fling since Daniel, those relationships relied heavily on the physical and really were only a bandaid on her loneliness. Of course, her marriage complicated the ability to move beyond that—after all, who in their right mind would build a life with someone as unavailable as she?

But Robin had a life outside of her.

He had a son to care for and a business to run, and, of course, he had the memory of Marian.

Though she hadn't said anything to him, she wondered if it'd be possible to continue on as they were, if he'd be willing to invest in a relationship that wouldn't necessarily lead to much more.

"You know, Leo is hosting another party tonight."

"I'm aware," he tells her, grinning as he looks over at her. "I spent the better part of an hour lugging crates of liquor into your cellar last night."

"I wanted to come and say hello."

"I wish you would have."

"It would have been awkward with Leopold standing right there."

He nods. "Well, let me tell you, what was more awkward was, every ten minutes or so, him pointing out how heavy the crates looked and then doing nothing to help."

Her eyes roll. "That sounds about right."

"And it'd have been worth the added awkwardness," he tells her. "The days I get to see you are far better than the days when I don't."

He looks at her, and for a moment, neither of them says anything. She finds that her eyes keep falling to his lips and she wonders what it'd be like to kiss him—and then, she snaps herself out of it, not letting herself fall too deep into the fantasy.

"You should come."

"To… your husband's party?"

"Why not?"

Robin's brows arch. "While I am not entirely sure what's happening between us," he says, clearing his throat as his eyes narrow. "Something tells me it would be inappropriate for us to let it play out right in front of him."

She can't help but smirk. "What exactly do you think happens at these parties?"

"Aside from an awful lot of drinking—"

"Just consider it. I usually don't go down for more than a few minutes, anyway."

His eyes narrow. "You don't attend the actual party?"

"I like the music and the drinks, but I'm not fond of the company."

"Interesting."

"There's a private bar upstairs. You can hear the music perfectly through the ducts and there's a nice, warm fireplace. It's… actually quite cozy."

"Cozy—"

"Incredibly so."

His eyes narrow. "I'll think about it."

"Will you?"

He nods and slowly rises. "I have to get Roland to school now," he tells her. "But you have my word that I'll consider it, M'lady."

He tips his hat to her as he walks away, and she smiles as she watches him go, hoping that he really will consider it.

She goes through the rest of her day without giving her invitation much thought.

Mal calls to let her know that she'll be picking Henry up from school the next morning, that her kitchen is loaded with good things to eat and ingredients for all sorts of baked goods to be made, and that when she'd been having her breakfast, the gifts that Regina sent for Henry arrived and were now taking up nearly the entirety of her closet.

They stayed on the phone for a little more than an hour—and when the phone rang a couple of hours later and she was informed _Miss Pendragon is on the line for you… again,_ she'd been elated to find that instead of Mal, Henry had called her. Mal surprised him by picking him up early.

She spent several hours talking to him—listening to stories about his friends at school and his teachers, his classes and the work he was doing, and her chest ached when he exclaimed that his grade in math was now a B- and he hoped he wouldn't need extra tutoring after all. She asked him what seemed like a thousand questions, and she relished in every response—and it wasn't until Henry was yawning that she realized it was nearly dusk and well-past his bedtime.

They said their goodbyes and promised to talk again the next day, and by the time she finally hung up, her maid was tapping her foot and holding her party dress.

Thoughts of Henry swirled through her head the whole time she was being dressed and while her hair was being done, and by the time the party started, she was already late. Of course, Leopold noticed that she was late, but said nothing, simply watching as she buzzed around the room, greeting people she didn't know, thanking them for coming, and wishing them a good time—and by the time she'd made her way around the ballroom, Leopold had lost interest. She's made her showing and been gracious. That was enough. That was all he needed her for.

She slipped away easily and made her way to her favorite hiding place, ready for a good, strong drink—and when she reaches it, she finds the door ajar. Her brows arch as she nears it, a slow smile working its way onto her lips as her stomach flutters, and she remembers the earlier invitation she gave—and when she rounds the corner into the room, Robin is there waiting for her.

"You came!" she calls out, unable to hide her excitement. "I'm so glad!"

He grins gently and nods. "I… thought I had the wrong room, or perhaps that your invitation wasn't sincere—"

"Quite the contrary. It was incredibly sincere." She smiles and closes the door, giving them some privacy. "I sort of had a feeling you wouldn't—"

"Truthfully, I wasn't positive that I was going to come until… well, until I got here. I'd been going over it again and again in my head, trying to decide what to do, what either choice would mean, and then… all of a sudden, here I was."

One brow arches as she looks up and down. "So, you make it a habit of wearing such a well-tailored suit to run evening errands?"

"Not usually, no, but I figured, on the off chance I did come here tonight, I wanted to… uh, to blend in." He offers a sheepish grin. "But instead of coming in with the rest of the guests, I was able to pick the lock on the back entrance."

"Well, you look very nice."

He nods. For a moment, he looks like he's unsure of what to do or say—and then, he crosses the room and pulls her into his arms. Her breath catches in surprise as she looks up at him, then before she has time to process what's about to happen, he kisses her and the orchestra from the party below begins to play.


	9. Chapter 9

Roland grins up at him as he pulls a toasted marshmallow from the fire. "Now what?"

"You need to smush it between two graham crackers," John says, nudging Roland's arm and holding out the cracker. "Kind of like a sandwich."

"When do we use the chocolate?" Roland asks, looking between them before his eyes finally settle on the bar of Hershey's chocolate they bought just for this occasion. "Can't we use that instead of the graham crackers?"

Robin laughs. "Then your fingers would get all messy."

"So?"

John laughs. "Let's get the marshmallow on the cracker, and then we'll worry about the chocolate."

Roland hesitates, but agrees, and lets John show him how to slide the marshmallow from the skewer. Robin grins as he watches Roland—bright eyed and amused—as he watches his uncle closely. He squirms as John reaches for the candy bar, then frowns when John breaks it in half.

"You know, I bet it'd be even better if we used the _whole_ bar."

"I knew you were going to say that," John says, shaking his head as a soft chuckle escapes him. "You know, too much chocolate might ruin it."

"That's a lie and you know it."

Robin bites down on his lip, stopping himself from outright laughing as his five-year old son calls his uncle's bluff. "Well, think of it this way, if we save some of the chocolate, you can have two."

John glares as Robin gingerly reaches for another marshmallow to prepare the skewer again for Roland. "You know, I think we're doing this good cop, bad cop thing wrong," he sighs. "I'm the uncle. I should get to be the fun one."

"I don't know where you got that impression."

John's eyes roll, but before he can reply, Roland bites into the s'more. His eyes widen and a little squeal escapes him before he devours the rest of the chocolatey, marshmallowy goodness—and as soon as he's done, he starts preparing the next one. This time, he does the assembly himself and eats it twice as fast—and then, it's time for bed.

Normally Roland's bedtime routine is tedious and exhausting for everyone but Roland. However, on Christmas Eve, it's a breeze. He washes up and brushes his teeth without complaint and puts on the first pair of pajamas Robin pulls out of the drawer, and half way through his bedtime story, he's at least pretending to be asleep.

"Maybe we can convince him that Santa does monthly check-ins or something."

Robin smirks as he sits down in the chair opposite John. "But with our luck, he'd think he got s'mores or some other messy treat for the occasion."

"That seems like a fair trade,"John says, laughing heartily as he pushes a bottle toward Robin. "Homemade ale, compliments of Marco and Eugenia."

He takes the bottle and opens it, taking a long swig. "I… uh, I think I might be having an affair with Regina Blanchard."

John nearly chokes. "You _think_?"

He looks up at him, taking another, shorter swig. "Yeah—"

"How can you possibly be unsure about whether or not you're having an affair with a woman?"

"It's… complicated."

"Or you're just dense."

Robin just stares at him. "About a week ago, she invited me over."

"Invited you over," John repeats.

"Well, Leopold was having one of his parties and she invited me."

"You went to a party that _her husband_ was hosting."

"Not… exactly." He sighs, and explains what happened.

He starts with her invitation early that morning in the cemetery and tells John that he spent the rest of the day considering it. Up until that moment, their encounters could easily be passed off as friendship. But that invitation had simply felt different.

And maybe that's what spurred him to kiss her.

Or maybe it was a culmination of things.

Really, why he kissed her didn't matter. What mattered was that he'd done it, and she'd kissed him back, neither of them pulling away until they were flushed and breathless.

She'd grabbed his hand and led him over to the bar and poured them each a glass of whiskey, and for awhile, they'd just stood at the bar enjoying their drinks and talking. Every now and then she'd give him a look, and every now and then, he'd find himself staring at her lips, wanting to kiss her again. When they'd finished the whiskey, he'd asked her to dance.

Regina came around the bar and offered him her hand, and he'd pulled her close before they started to sway. He's not sure how they lasted through the entirety of a song before he kissed her again, but it wasn't long before he found himself in an armchair with her straddling his lap as they kissed.

They stayed in that armchair for the majority of the night, cuddled up together as they shared drinks and talked, and no matter which way their conversation went, it always somehow led to another kiss.

She'd asked him to stay with her and it killed him to say no; but, of course, he'd wanted to be there when Roland woke up in the morning, and of course, she understood.

"She asked me to come to their party tonight," he murmurs, his eyes shifting to the clock. "But I told her I wouldn't be able to make it."

"When did she invite you?"

"As I was leaving the party last week."

"Have you talked to her since then?"

He sighs. "No. I told her this week is always nuts for us and—"

"You really are that dense. My god."

"What? We are busy and it's Christmas Eve. I can't leave—"

"Roland? He's sleeping."

"I know, but—"

John sighs and his eyes press closed. "You spent a night making out with a woman that you clearly like and then don't talk to her for a week because you're busy with work."

"Well, it's not like—"

"Do you want to see her?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then go. I can hold the fort down here."

"What if Roland wakes up?"

"Any other night, I'd entertain that possibility, but there's no way that kid is getting up until Christmas morning."

Robin hesitates, looking John dead in the eye. "I'm having an affair with a married woman."

"Yeah. It sounds like you are." Robin sighs and takes another sip of the ale. "But everyone knows the Blanchards' marriage is a sham." Robin looks up from over the rim of his bottle. "I mean, look at her then look at him. Nothing adds up there."

"It was arranged."

"Well, there you go. Mystery solved."

"I… might be falling in love with her."

"Then go see her."

"You… don't even like her. Why are you encouraging this?"

"Because _you_ like her," John says easily, grinning as he reaches for his own drink and takes a short sip of it. "And if you like her, she can't be _that_ bad."

It hadn't taken much convincing, after that.

He arrives at the Blanchard house less than an hour later and lets himself in through the back, just as he did before. He sneaks upstairs and smiles when he sees a light coming from beneath the door. Slowly, he opens it, and for a moment, he just stands there, watching as Regina stands by the window, staring out at the night sky.

It's snowing lightly and she looks lost in thought. Her wavy hair is pulled back with a diamond-studded pin and she wears a shimmery silver dress—she is absolutely breathtaking.

He almost hates to interrupt the moment.

Almost.

"I bet you thought I wouldn't come."

Regina whirls around, her eyes wide and her smile is immediate. "Robin, what are you—"

"I wanted to see you," he says simply, shrugging his shoulders. "And it took me far too long to realize that I could."

"But it's Christmas Eve. What about Roland—"

"He's sleeping, and John's with him." A smile curls onto his lips. "Besides that, I have a gift for you."

"Do you?" He nods as she crosses the room to where he stands and presses a quick kiss to his lips. "Can I make you a drink? Or—"

"I'd like that."

He follows her as she goes to the bar, watching as she mixes a drink. He tells her about Roland's new-found love of s'mores as she tells him about her phone call that morning with Henry. They talk about the snow and their mutual dislike of New Year's resolutions, and they talk about Christmases past—good experiences and bad. They talk well past the point of finishing their drinks, and when Regina notices it and makes them each a second, they take it to the armchair by the fire.

She nestles into the crook of his arm, and there's something about that that's both exhilarating and familiar.

For more than a month now, he's enjoyed her company—simply enjoying being in her presence. He's not sure when that enjoyment began to shift from wanting to be her friend to wanting to be more than that, but he's not sure that's what matters.

It's been a long time since he had this and he hadn't realized just how much he'd missed it. For years now, he's struggled to keep his head above water. Since the war, everything has been a struggle. Marian had been his life preserver, offering security, keeping him afloat, and reminding him that everything would be okay. And then, she'd been yanked away. Had it not been for Roland, he's not sure what would've happened to him; he's not sure that he would have even wanted to survive.

He'd stopped thinking of himself after Marian's death—truthfully, he couldn't—and he'd thrown himself into being a full-time, sole parent. He didn't think about his grief or his loneliness. He didn't think of his own need for comfort, and he swore himself to a code—a code he's lived by ever since.

He wanted to set an example for his son by living a life that was both righteous and true—but, of course, his own definitions of those concepts were slightly askew. It didn't bother him that what he did for work was illegal because it allowed him to provide a comfortable home for them and it put food on the table. It didn't matter that Roland saw him tell a million little lies about their lives everyday because he told the truth about the things that mattered. And it didn't matter to him that Regina Blanchard was someone who he should consider off-limits.

He'd mulled her marital status over and over again, knowing that he should be bothered by it; but no matter how many times he considered it, he just couldn't find anything wrong in what they were doing. It wasn't like Leopold Blanchard loved his wife—truthfully, he wasn't even sure that Leopold Blanchard cared at all for her—and like him, Regina was merely trying to stay afloat.

And there was something poetic in the thought that they could help one another to get by.

He holds her a little closer, strumming his fingers slowly up and down her, smiling as she tells him about one of the gifts she got for Henry—the erector set that Mal's promised to clear a space for in her living room—and though she wishes she could see his face when he opens it, hearing about it on Christmas afternoon will be the next best thing. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, and she grins up at him before resting her head back down on his chest. It seems so strange to think that just a couple of months before she hadn't even seemed real to him, that she was more illusion than human—and now, her humanity was all he could see.

He can't remember the last time he felt so content and at ease with another person—and while he hates that tonight will be the last time for a long while before he feels it again, he knows it'll all be worth it in the end.


	10. Chapter 10

Regina yawns.

The music from the party downstairs is still playing and she can still hear bits of drunken laughter and conversation—but despite how close the party is, it seems so far away.

She looks up at Robin, resting her chin on his chest, smiling as he grins down at her. "It's getting late—"

"We're well past late."

"Do you, um… do you need to go?" She bites down on her lip. She doesn't want him to go, but it's Christmas morning. "I'm sure Roland will be up early."

"Oh, I've still got a few hours."

"You do?"

"He'll sleep until the sun comes up."

"He won't be too excited to sleep?"

Robin laughs. "No, once he's out, he's out. The sun always wakes him though."

"So, until the sun rises…" Her voice trails up and her heart beats a little faster. "You could stay until then?"

Robin nods. "Well, I don't have any other plans for the earliest hours of the morning."

Her cheeks warm and her eyes momentarily cast down, watching as her fingers trace circles over his shirt. "Will you stay the night?" she asks, looking up at him. There's a part of her that expects him to say no, even though he's already passed up two opportunities to leave. "Will you stay with me?"

"I'd like that," he replies, grinning as he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "In fact, I can think of no better way to spend my night."

Holding her breath, she looks at him and slowly pulls away.

He's not like anyone she's ever been with—not since Daniel, anyway—and in that moment, she finds herself glad for all the other times he's gently turned her down.

For months now, they've been building up to this point, and she's glad for that build. Had he stayed the night that night she first asked him to, she doubts that she'd ever actually have gotten to know him, that something more than a physical attraction and general liking would have developed. Instead, she'd have done what she always did—she'd let him get close enough to momentarily ease her loneliness, and then it would have all fallen apart. After all, what did she really have to offer?

Most men of their generation already felt their lives had been stalled by the war, and they were overly eager for some sort of normalcy. But she was trapped in her marriage and as much as she wanted 'normal' for herself, she couldn't quite fathom a way to attain it, at least not in the near future—and as jaded as that was, she'd accepted that her fate was never her own.

Though Robin's situation was less complicated than hers, his life wasn't entirely his, either—his heart still belonged to his late wife and his time belonged to his son—and while he was willing to let her in, he'd never be entirely hers. For most, their situation would seem doomed; for most, what they each had to offer wouldn't be enough. There was a chance that something, somewhere down the line would change, but for the moment, whatever it was that was blooming between them was exactly what she needed—and she thought that just maybe they might be able to help each other heal.

"Come on," she murmurs, sitting up and taking him by the hand.

Wordlessly, he follows her down the long hall that leads to her bedroom.

For a moment, they both just stand there, staring at each other from across the room, waiting for the other to make that first move. Her stomach flutters as she locks the door, and a sly little smile edges over his lips as he watches her slip off her shoes and pull the pin from her hair, letting it fall down around her shoulders—and before she can ask if he's sure, before she can remind him that after this happens, there's no going back or pretending whatever it is that's happening between them is merely friendship, he starts toward her.

When he reaches her, he pulls her in by the hip, tugging her closer as his other hand sweeps into her hair, smiling gently as he leans in for a kiss. Her arms link around his neck as she pushes herself closer, kissing him back as his hand slips around her hip in search of the zipper on the back of her dress.

Slowly—and a bit reluctantly—she pulls back and turns around, looking back at him from over her shoulder and watching as his eyes linger. He steps in and his lips settle at the crook of her neck, his fingers tugging down the zipper, making her dress loosen around her and a soft shiver run down her spine as the cool air comes in contact with her skin. Robin's hand slips inside of the dress, sliding around her to rest against the thin fabric of her step-in chemise, his fingers pressing and kneading as she wriggles out of the dress. As her dress pools at her feet, she leans back against his chest, her head turning to the side as she enjoys the warmth of his breath.

Turning back to him, she reaches up, placing both hands on the side of his face as she takes his lips in hers. His hand slides down past the small of her back as he breaks the kiss, letting his lips coast down her throat as they move to the other side of her neck, suckling gently at her skin as she tugs his shirt from his pants—and then her fingers wrap around the top button of his pants. Robin stops and looks down, then slowly casts his eyes back up to meet hers as she undoes the button. She grins as he offers her a coy little smile.

His pants loosen and she tugs his shirt over his head, dropping it down as she reaches for his hand to lead him to her bed. He sits down at the foot of it, letting his eyes linger over the thin white silk that covers her. His fingers touch the fabric as he reaches for her, and when she catches his hand he looks back up—and this time, it's her turn to offer a coy grin.

Sinking down in front of him, she rubs her hands over his knees and thighs, eventually finding herself rubbing over the hardening bulge inside his boxer shorts. He offers an encouraging little groan as she pulls him out, stroking her hand up and down his shaft a few times before taking him in her mouth. He groans again as her tongue flits around the tip of his cock and a shaky breath escapes him as her lips slowly slide down his shaft, taking him into her mouth completely.

His hand finds its way into her hair as he hardens in her mouth. When she finally pulls away from him, before she can even fully stand and gain her footing, Robin reaches for her, his arm wrapping around her waist as he pulls her down onto the bed with him. She laughs as he rolls on top of her, peppering her with kisses—and any glimmer of trepidation or uncertainty either of them might have had fades away.

Robin sits up and unbuttons her chemise and she wriggles out of it, leaving her completely naked as he pulls off his boxers and settles at her side.

She turns toward him, kissing him deeply as his hand settles at her abdomen. Slowly, his hand drifts between her legs. Instinctively, she shifts her hips, giving him more access to her and moaning against his mouth as his thumb finds a rhythm against her clit.

They stay like that for awhile, just kissing and stroking one another as the soft but distant music from the party below them plays. She lets out a little whimper as Robin pulls away from her, shifting himself to his feet—but as he parts her legs and leans in, she can't help but smile in anticipation of what's to come.

The first swipe of his tongue is electric. It's been so long since she's been with anyone, and longer since she's gotten much pleasure from it, so she lays back and enjoys it as he licks at her. His lips suck at her clit while two of his fingers pump in and out of her, eventually leaving her breathlessly satisfied as he pulls back, trailing kisses down her thighs.

She giggles softly as he stretches out beside her once more, his lips settling at the crook of her neck as he waits for her to come down from her high—and then, once she's ready, he rolls on top of her.

She lets out a low _mmmm_ as he slips inside of her, slowly pushing in until he fills her. He mutters something breathy that she doesn't quite catch, but nonetheless, she smiles as she looks up at him with hooded eyes—he feels so damn good.

And then he begins to move, his thrusts slow at first—pulling nearly all the way out before easing back into her— then, as her hips begin to move in rhythm with his movements, he picks up the pace. Her legs wrap around him and her fingers dig into his back as she pulls him closer, whimpering and moaning as they pleasure one another.

A bit abruptly, his thrusts slow, and she looks to him, watching as he pulls himself up. He rubs his hands over her knees as he draws them up, grinning slyly as he stares down at her, letting his eyes linger over her naked body, taking in her beauty. She returns the grin as she reaches for her clit, rubbing her fingers in a circular motion as she watches him slip back into her as he continues to fuck her.

Finally they each reach that point where they can't hold back any longer. Her hips buck and her legs tighten, her head pressing back into her pillow as her breath grows harder and ragged as a second climax nears—and when he explodes inside of her, they each let out a satisfied moan. His movements slow as he rides out his own climax, and eventually, he collapses on top of her.

She kisses him again, her arms linking around his neck as her fingers rub at his hairline, but unlike before, it lacks urgency. It's soft and a little lazy, the sort of kiss that could seemingly go on forever.

But of course, it can't.

He rolls off of her and settles at her side, grinning as she cuddles into his side and pulls the thick blanket up around them.

It's hard to tell how much time has passed. The music downstairs seems to have quieted and her eyelids are growing heavy—but she's not quite ready to go to sleep. Robin's fingers rub gently at her skin, flitting up and down her arm, then back again, but their conversation has dwindled—and to her relief, the silence between them isn't uncomfortable.

Then, suddenly, everything seems to fade...

When her eyes flutter open, Robin's arms are no longer around her and from the window she can see that the sky is beginning to lighten. It's nearly daylight; it's nearly Christmas morning.

"Robin, are you—"

"I didn't mean to wake you."

She smiles groggily. "I'm glad I woke up. At least this way, I get to say Merry Christmas."

He pulls on his shirt and then turns himself toward her, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to her lips. "Merry Christmas."

"I'm glad you stayed."

He nods and reaches for his socks. "I am, too, I'm just sorry it has to end so soon."

"We'll see each other again."

He offers a smile that seems a little sad—or maybe he's just tired—as he nods. "Soon, I hope."

"Soon," she agrees as she lays back against the pillow, finding it difficult to keep her eyes open. "Maybe we could just happen to run into each other for a cup of coffee sometime next week?"

He hesitates, then nods again. "I'd very much like that." Her eyes flutter and she yawns; she's too tired to actually make a tentative plan, and he seems to sense that. Leaning in again, he presses a kiss to her forehead. "Go back to sleep. I'll show myself out."

Her eyes flutter and she nods. She doesn't remember anything after that...

When her eyes open again, she's alone in her room. The bed is messy and the pillow beside her is still indented from where Robin's head laid on it, and when she rolls over and draws in a breath, she can still smell the earthy smell of evergreen that she's come to associate with him.

She smiles wistfully as she gets out of bed, shivering as the cool air envelopes her naked body, and as she reaches for her robe, she notices an envelope propped up against the mirror of her dressing table with the words "Merry Christmas" written in Robin's handwriting. Her brow furrows, but a smile draws up at the corners of her mouth, remembering that he'd said something about a gift—and after tying her robe tight around her waist, she sits down at the dressing table and reaches for it.

Biting down on her lip, she slips her finger underneath the flap, ripping it open, and instead of card, she finds a note-an oddly folded note with the message on the exterior.

 _Forgive me, M'lady, for lying to you this morning when I said that we could meet for coffee later this week. What I couldn't tell you then is that you are in no position to make plans as you'll be out of the country and ringing in the new year with your boy. I can't wait to hear all about it over coffee, whenever you should return. You'll notice that the enclosed ticket is one way. I didn't want to rush you as this visit is long overdue. Send a note when you're ready to return_ — _and if you should never return, I most certainly hope that you'll write._

_All my love,_

_Robin_

Her tears are immediate, and her hands shake as she unfolds his note—and just as he said, the paper is wrapped around a steerage ticket, stamped for an arrival at the Port of London in just four days, just in time to celebrate the new year. She stares at the black, boxy letters that spell out the name of the ocean liner at the top of the ticket, and for a moment, she feels like this has to be a part of some dream, like any moment the joy she feels will be taken away—after all, life has taught her to expect that.

Thinking of Robin, she pushes those thoughts away, not willing to let them ruin such a wonderful surprise. For too long she's let fear dictate what she does and what she allows herself to enjoy. She sets the ticket down and looks to the letter again, smiling gently as she reads his words—sweetly and selflessly restoring the notion that maybe she could find happiness again.

Truthfully, she can't quite tell if this is a beginning or an end—but for the moment, she decides not to dwell on that either. She's lived through enough to know that people come in and out of one another's lives when they're supposed to. Some get to stay, while others' stay is brief—only time would tell which it was. But regardless of how or when it ended, her time with Robin Locksley would remain one of the brightest spots in her life—and she hoped he'd be able to say the same.


End file.
